Wrong Until You Make It Right
by truetest
Summary: Stiles hasn't been doing so hot, but he's trying. He even goes on vacation to try to get a boost out of his depression, but all his work goes right down the drain when he falls down the stairs and dies the lamest of lame deaths. The only person who can see and hear him is also dead... And what's worse is that the guy turns out to be an angry, socially inept jerkwad. Awesome.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I apologize for the first time trying to upload this – it's been a bit since I used FFN and didn't realize just how badly the formatting was fucked. (ETA 2: I finally got my linebreaks in. I still can't figure out how to make it so it doesn't squish my words together, but oh well. I really hate how FFN's upload process works.)

Anyway, please enjoy!

* * *

Stiles wasn't really a dreamer, but he did have one hell of an imagination. Hence, writing.

In his head was a scene on the beach, a combination of different dramas playing out - he was somewhere between the finality of death and the tragic forever-loss of someone, both of them alive, but never able to be with each other again, with nothing more than memories to keep them company.

Romantic, right?

But on the real, it was fucking depressing, which, hey, perfect.

He was dealing with the aftermath of his own shitty tragedy, so it only made sense. It was running through his head again - does that which is bitter end sweet? That whole monologue had always stuck with him, way after the first time he'd watched RocknRolla with Scott, but most of the movie was too far away from anyone in the story he was writing that thinking about it wasn't actually helpful.

There was a split second of weency bit of warm-feelings, thinking of him and Scott sitting back and loving every minute of that movie, the serious roller coaster it'd been, how into it they were. And then Stiles' new best buddy - a veritable iron curtain of anxious nothing - came down and squashed the memory.

As always, something gripped his gut tight at the thought of Scott, but he forced himself to calm down, and let himself think of Scott slowly. Controlled thinking. Acknowledge, don't ruminate.

That was what he was supposed to do, anyway.

The person that Stiles was writing at the moment was who Scott would have been if he'd taken the low road after his dad left. Scott wasn't the type of dude to throw around his past, but he and Stiles shared enough history that he didn't have to say much for Stiles to get it when not even a fucking card came for birthdays or Christmas, his dad apparently too busy to remember. But if he wanted to say more, Stiles was there for that, too.

Scott was family, and for Stiles that was something hard to come by. And it wasn't his fault that they were on bad… terms. It was - it was Stiles. No, it wasn't… They. Stiles. _Family is hard to_ \- So fucking hard to. Hard. Scott did everything, he didn't. Just - because they were all - it was - he couldn't -

 _Dead, he's dead, they're dead, they're fucking gone, and they don't want me, what am I doing, no one cares, I don't care, I've never given a shit about me, why should anyone else, why should I care, I don't, I don't care, I don't care at all, why won't it just stop, if I don't care, why won't it stop, jesus fucking christ I just want, but I deserve this, deserve it all, can't do it, can't make it stop, it can't stop, this is what happens, everything is fucked and it's my fault, all my fault, all of it, always, always has been always will be, fuck, fuck, FUCK -_

Stiles slammed his laptop shut and buried his face in his hands in an effort to keep them from literally tearing his hair out. He was struggling to breathe, but felt like his chest was falling in on itself, and he was three seconds away from freaking right the fuck out.

His ears rang as his mind raced from one thing to another; from loss, loneliness, and then every tiny thing that had ever completely wrecked itself in one way or another over his whole fucking lifetime. In his head there were faces, the pitying and worried faces of his friends trying to help, but only making everything worse. There were words dropping like bombs - _useless, disappointment, helpless, worthless, loser, failure._

 _(You killed them both -_

 _Couldn't keep it together -_

 _Can't even keep your friends -_

 _No one wants you -_

 _It's not gonna stop -_

 _You'll lose your mind -_

 _What's it worth -_

 _Killed them both -_

 _Killed them -_

 _Drove them out -_

 _They're gone, everyone's gone -)_

Logically knowing that what he heard in his head were horrible lies that only came from itty bitty grains of truth didn't really help in the face of this fucking whirlwind that he was fighting down. It didn't help the lump in his throat or the squeezing in his stomach that made him want to vomit. It didn't do a damn thing for his pounding heart and stinging eyes.

He took control of his breathing and inhaled desperately, until his lungs felt like they were going to explode under the pressure, and then exhaled as slowly as he could, collapsing his chest and focusing on the feeling of constriction and emptiness in his body. He started counting - _inhale, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 - hold 1, 2, 3 - exhale 5, 4, 3, 2, 1._

Repeat.

Stiles sat breathing, leaned back in his chair with the wind whistling by and the sun warm on his skin. The waves of the ocean crashed over and over against the shore. There was the heavy scent and feel of salt on the air, and Stiles kept breathing.

As he calmed down ( _ha, calm, right_ ), he scrubbed his hands down his face. His eyes felt sore from how he'd clenched them shut against tears, knowing if it started again he wouldn't be able to stop. He looked out at the scene that'd brought him back.

The therapist had a point, it seemed. Somewhere quiet and calm to take away the stress. Somewhere to focus on the right things and relax.

As he grabbed his laptop and notes to head back inside, he thought about how it was weird that some sounds set him off if he was already on the verge of a panic attack, but others seemed to be just at that point between quiet and loud that would take the edge off, let his breathing keep on track until the almost freak out had passed.

He put all his crap on the dining room table, and went immediately for the sink, splashing icy water on his face and neck. He patted his face down with a towel, then poured himself a glass of water and gulped it down, still shaking steadily, but feeling a little more relief every minute. He looked up at the ceiling, inhaling deeply and letting out a long, forceful sigh.

He'd thought before that he'd been done with these damn things a long time ago, that he'd left the panic attacks behind with high school.

But he wasn't exactly a lucky person, so. There he was.

He glanced over at the ugly pastel-fishes beach-typical clock hanging next to the fridge, and realized it was time to eat. He wasn't proud to admit it, but he'd lost a lot of weight in the last year, and these days if he didn't eat on a schedule, he'd forget to eat at all.

He figured he'd do something easy, and went for a standard - chicken and rice casserole with broccoli snuck into it. He paused washing the broccoli, trying to swallow against his suddenly cramped throat and force down the sharp stab that seemed to pierce straight through his sternum.

There wasn't really a reason to be "sneaking" veggies into food anymore, was there?

He brought one wet hand up to his face, covering his eyes.

"Goddammit, Dad. I miss you so fucking much…"

He shook his head quickly and wiped his face with his sleeve, choosing to reroute instead of acknowledge that train of thought (because that had gone so well five minutes ago) and turned his attention back to the washing, shutting the sink off when he felt like everything was clean. When he got to chopping, the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and he was distinctly uncomfortable - the kind of feeling he got when he knew someone sketchy was looking at him that he really, really didn't want to look back at.

He felt like things were just too creepy quiet (seriously, this place gave him the mild jeebies sometimes, though he figured for how calm everything was otherwise, being heebed on occasion wasn't such a big deal), so he picked up his phone from the table and flipped through his music, picking something at random for background noise as he went back to chopping and throwing everything together, his hands working more steadily as he focused on the movements. It was grounding, gave him something to do, and cooking had always been soothing - that hadn't been lost with everything else, at least.

He felt like a kid when he started crumbling crackers to cover the casserole, and the corners of his lips quirked up at the thought of one kid at a restaurant he and Scott had gone to once doing the same thing… Except the little shit'd looked directly at the exhausted waiter and thrown the crackers to the floor, wearing such a shit-eating grin that Stiles had almost snorted Sprite out of his nose.

It was at that point that Stiles had decided that he would do anything he could to avoid waiting tables in college. Kids were great and all, and he could keep a smile pasted on with the best of them, but he just _knew_ that he'd be damn exhausted at the end of a shift. And he'd promised certain people he'd quit abusing his adderall and try to keep a decent sleep schedule and not drink himself stupid.

He'd let those promises fly out the window when he'd started losing his head, trying to meet due dates while drowning himself in alcohol whenever he could. Then he'd stopped trying to meet the due dates, and just… Didn't want to think anymore.

He didn't want to be thinking right then.

Casserole in the oven, he turned the music off and tried to decide what he wanted to do. Which, hilarious, because he hadn't actually _wanted_ to do anything for way too long now. Making himself sit down and write, or cook, or play video games, or watch TV, or read, or click mindlessly through Wikipedia, or any of the things he used to love was all part of the therapy. Kind of in a "if you just keep smiling, one day it'll be real again" sort of way. Fake it til you make it. It worked sometimes; there were times he felt himself slipping into a good state in whatever he was doing.

But inevitably something would happen, and he just _couldn't_ anymore. Like, y'know. Do anything. Move. Breathe.

He glanced at the TV, at the pile of video games he'd brought hanging out next to a pile of those cheesy romance movies that he not-so-secretly loved. Deciding no, his eyes settled on his laptop, and he thought about the woman in his story and her addictions, and he wasn't so sure he wanted to work on her perspective at the moment. He felt weird when he went out of order with his chapters and scenes, so he'd probably put that off for a while.

Or maybe he should just start something else. Something light-hearted with a happy ending.

The corner of his mouth twitched up bitterly.

Right, because he could channel nice feelings and fluffy thoughts, and pump true love out of fingers attached to a heart that had never felt "the glory of reciprocity" of such things itself.

Bleh.

Once again, nothing appealed. He was getting that familiar desire to crawl up the stairs to bed and lay there until he wasted away. He slipped into a weird state of consciousness when he actually gave into that impulse, since most of the time he didn't even really sleep - real sleep without booze was still a work in progress - but his mind was on pause enough that things would seem far away, like the life he'd been living was only some kind of dream. That state of being was addicting, almost as good as drinking himself into a coma.

He bit his lip and looked back toward the games he'd brought, contemplating them a second time. He was in the middle of like four of them, but suddenly wished he'd brought something he'd already finished that he could mindlessly replay with no surprises. Instead he found himself bending down to the pile, tugging Skyrim out and setting it up so he could sit back and play until dinner was ready.

When his timer went off he exited the game and made a plate, picking a movie at random from his collection of shitty romcoms and popping it in before settling back with his food.

He took each bite mechanically, aware of chewing and tasting, swallowing and getting full, but not actually processing any of it. He felt distant from it somehow, and it was true that these days food was more to keep him alive than to feel good. He wouldn't make crappy food on purpose or anything, but it didn't much matter to him what he ate, because at the end of the day he disassociated from it all.

Losing his appetite fucking sucked, because Stiles had been all about the comfort food, picky about making healthy meals that tasted good but still indulging in chocolate and Cheetos and copious amounts of curly fries from time to time.

He and Scott would order like 5 large things of curly fries and eat them in a sitting, coming to seriously regret the decision when they would try and fail to move while carrying their food-babies. But being teenage boys, they'd always forget exactly what the consequences were and do it all over again later, then wonder why they ever did it to themselves when they already _knew_.

He finished, putting down the bowl and curling up into the big white leather couch of comfyness with the throw blanket, watching the rest of the movie play out with half his mind on the plot and half in a fog, sunk into the couch and warmth.

He must have drifted, because the next time he was aware of anything the dvd had returned to the home screen and the only light came from the tv and the glow of the moon through the large windows. His neck ached a little from slumping on the couch, and he rubbed it absently as he got up to shut everything off, and made his way to the stairs and up to bed in the darkness.

He felt bleary despite the rest, almost dizzy, and halfway up the carpeted steps remembered the pills he was supposed to take before bed (yay starting doses of antidepressant that apparently haven't kicked in yet) and also realized that he hadn't put away the leftovers. Hopefully the food wasn't rampantly growing bacteria, but eh, it was probably fine. He yawned loudly, then turned to head back down the stairs.

His socked foot slipped and his body tilted, fear and panic taking over for a split second as he tried to correct the misstep, but he couldn't make it, feeling himself roll head first down, down, and the last thing he felt before the blackness was a shot of intense pain through the back of his skull.

* * *

The light from the sun was fricken blinding when Stiles blinked himself awake, confused for a moment about where exactly he was. He felt distinctly uncomfortable, one leg crooked out to the side and one arm, like, underneath him ( _how the fuck…?_ ), and struggled into a sitting position. The stone-tiled floor was cold beneath his hands, grounding him a little as he shook his head gently, trying to get himself to full consciousness and figure out why the hell he was sprawled on his back at the bottom of the stairs as opposed to cocooned in blankets and heaven.

As he stood he looked up the stairway, and vaguely remembered spinning on the steps only to bust his ass (break his head) on the floor below. So, okay, there was that, but… Why the hell didn't his head hurt? When his hand ran over the back of his skull, there was no lump, and it wasn't tender at all. Just hair and scalp, no evidence of a fall or a hurt or any damage whatsoever.

Feeling a little unsettled, but damned if he was going to question the whole no-pain thing he had going, he made his way to the kitchen to check the time.

Eight AM. Breakfast time, just about on the dot.

He sighed heavily, running one hand through his hair, and dragged his feet to start his routine. He was washing his hands thoroughly when he started getting the feeling that something wasn't right, and that was when he noticed that the dish rag he'd been using was nowhere to be found.

Okay then. That was… weird. But Stiles could really only think of two explanations of the top of his head: either the place was haunted as fuck; or a very discrete cleaning crew had come in while Stiles was knocked out on the floor.

...He'd go with the cleaning crew.

As he went to grab his phone or laptop for some tunes to help negate the freaky feeling he was starting to get, he wondered absently if they'd mopped around him.

But when he looked on the kitchen table where he'd left his stuff, there was nothing there.

Or on the deck.

Or in front of the tv.

Fuck, did somebody fucking rob him while he was out cold and dead to the world?

"No. Nope, not happening, you just have an overactive imagination, cleaners probably just moved all your stuff upstairs or something," he muttered, scrubbing a hand over the back of his head and walking to the base of the stairs, where he stood for a moment, feeling uneasy. A minute or so later, he was climbing up the stairs, alarm bells threatening to start ringing in his head, and felt himself go stock-still when he reached his bedroom and saw that all the shit he'd remembering being messily strewn across the room was gone.

And the bed was made.

 _What the fuck._

He went to the bathroom, those alarm bells now starting to go off like crazy, but his toothbrush and all his other crap were missing too, and the fucking toilet paper had a little triangle folded onto it like it had when he'd first arrived at the house.

Either the cleaning crew had robbed him blind, or there was some seriously _weird shit_ happening.

"Okay, uh… Dream? Dream! Dream, dream, I'm _obviously_ dreaming, what the fuck, okay _wake up_!" He found himself half-yelling, his voice squeaking out the last few words. He was starting to really freak out as he paced restlessly, pinched his side as hard as he could, but only succeeded in causing himself to squawk, with everything around him still exactly the same.

Feeling desperate and not a little bit nuts, he ran outside, pajamas and all, no shoes, barreling down the stairs and up the gravel driveway, coming to a stop when he noticed a middle aged dude out walking his dog. Panting in his panic, he shouted out a "Hey!"

The guy didn't so much as flinch.

"HEY! You! Guy with the dog!"

No response from the guy, though the dog stopped and looked straight at him. He heard a low growl, and the owner must have noticed too, because he looked up, gaze going around and… and _through_ Stiles.

"Hey! Oh my _fucking..._ _Hell_ ooo, can you hear me!? Hey!" Stiles shouted, nearly screaming, waving his arms frantically. The dog's owner looked at the dog and back up, and then pulled the dog along to casually stroll away. Stiles deflated, feeling suddenly totally alone, nervous, and at a complete loss.

"He can't hear you."

Stiles jumped and turned abruptly, almost falling in the gravel as it shifted unsteadily beneath his feet. There was a man standing there, feet braced apart, arms crossed.

"Jesus christ, way to almost give a guy a heart attack!"

The man's dark eyebrows lowered, his grumpy (yet chiseled, stubbled, and all-around unfairly attractive) face moving into a full-on glower.

"He can't hear you," McGrumpenpants said again.

"Uh, yeah, no shit. Dude must be deaf and blind or some-"

"No one can hear you," he bulldozed right over Stiles, the rude fuck.

Stiles exhaled forcefully, eyebrows pinching together as he tried to check his rising anger.

"Okay, Mr. Cryptic, what _exactly_ do you mean "no one can hear me"? What the hell is going on?"

Talk Dark and Frowning uncrossed his arms, and gave Stiles a blank once-over before turning and striding back toward the house.

"What the - are - are you fucking kidding me right now?" Stiles spluttered, but the dude made no indication that he'd heard him. "Hey! Will you just - HEY!"

When the guy just kept walking up the drive, Stiles bolted after him, grabbing his shoulder and roughly throwing the man around to face him. He gripped his shoulder tightly to keep him in place, glaring into the prettiest pair of eyes he'd ever seen in real actual life.

"Can you just _stop_ for a minute and bother to tell me what the hell is happening? Why all my shit is gone? Why the bed is made? Why I woke up at the bottom of the stairs after breaking my head on the floor without even a bruise?"

Pretty Eyes Glarenstein raised an eyebrow at him, looked pointedly at the hand on his shoulder, and back to Stiles. The intensity Stiles saw in his face at that moment made his heart stutter a little in fear, and he snatched his hand away, crossing his arms over his chest.

"So?" Stiles prompted, trying to keep his tone level. He wanted to look away from the focus of Scary-dude's eyes, but he felt like he had to prove something. He wasn't going to be afraid of some rando who just packed a good glare.

As long as he didn't, like, piss himself or something, he'd be good.

"You're dead."

Stiles blinked heavily, and then gave Dude his best stink-eye.

"That was the lamest threat I've ever heard. Not intimidating at all, bro."

"You're _dead_ ," the guy repeated. Something clicked in Stiles' head, then, and started up a dry, dark, unimpressed laugh.

"Right, right! Yeah, I'm dead, and I'm a ghost, just haunting away, la-dee-da? Yeah, okay, real funny, dude's got jokes! Who'd have thought, you are the human frown -"

"I'm not joking," the man said, deadpan. "Try crossing the street if you don't believe me." And with that, he turned and continued up the driveway to the side-door stairs.

Stiles gave him the hairy eyeball as he walked up the stairs into the house before rolling his eyes hard, but still felt a little hysterical, and a little like he wanted to throw up. Because dead? Seriously?

He looked out at the street, saw a kid fly by on his bike.

This guy had to be… playing a prank on him? Or maybe he just wanted Stiles to get hit by a car. He seemed like the kinda guy who'd get a kick out the vehicular homicide of annoying 24-year-olds.

But there was that niggling little feeling in the back of his head, something that told him that there was some disturbing truth to what dude was saying. Still, it was _highly_ doubtful that Stiles was actually dead and haunting this stupid beach house, because what unfinished business did he have? He wasn't vengeful or anything, he'd just been some depressed lonely person trying to get their head on straight. That sounded like a pretty damn boring ghost if anyone asked him.

Still, Stiles found himself walking up the rest of the drive to the edge of the street. He looked both ways to check for traffic, but the road was quiet. He took a deep breath, feeling nervous, but quickly shook it off, because what the hell was there to even be nervous about, right?

...Right?

He took a step out onto the pavement, but before his foot even hit the ground he felt something pull inside of him, and _what the serious fuck_ he was back next to the stairs where he'd woken up that morning.

He looked around, flailing, the freakiness of what'd just happened really starting to send him into panic mode. He felt his hair stand on end, a prickling deep in his bones, and true to form his breath came shorter, the world losing sound around him, and -

No. Just, no. He squeezed his eyes shut, relaxed them. Made fists and tensed his forearms. Relaxed them. Biceps. Abdomen. Breathing, breathing, breathing, tense one-two-three in, hold two, relax, long exhale.

Not today, brain.

Stiles continued on just like he'd been taught, and when he'd marginally calmed, he turned around to see the same guy from before gazing at him from the living room. He raised his eyebrows at Stiles, looking smug and aggravating.

"Believe me now?"

Stiles exhaled heavily through his nose, choosing to redirect his panic into anger at this dude in the unnecessarily tight grey henley.

"Okay, yeah. Some really freaky shit is going on right now, and, not gonna lie, I'm about two hairs away from freaking out -"

"Looks like you're already there."

"- and full on punching you in the face. Stop being a prick for two seconds and help me out here," Stiles was doing that thing where he yelled at someone without raising his voice, but it didn't seem to be as intimidating to this guy as he wished it would be. "Can we start off with some basics? What's your name?"

The guy looked like he was having to drag the response out of his very core, but he did end up answering.

"Derek."

"Hi Derek, I'm Stiles," Stiles replied with sarcastic pleasantry. "Now, can you tell me what's going on here?"

"You are dead," Derek repeated, _again_ , speaking slowly and enunciating as if Stiles didn't speak English. "I am dead. We are ghosts now."

"That much I got," Stiles snapped back. "But, like, how long have you been here? Why are we here? _How_ are we here? How long have I been dead? Oh my god, did I seriously kill myself falling down a flight of stairs? That is the fucking lamest of the lame. Wait, okay, holy shit, am I really _dead_?"

Stiles could feel himself on the verge of tipping into either a rage fit or a panic attack for the second time in less than five minutes, neither of which would be productive, so he tried to reign himself in and just keep going. He opened his mouth, but before he could make a sound Derek finally spoke up.

"Congratulations on getting with the program," he said, tone cold and dry. "And I've been here long enough."

Stiles let out a frustrated groan, putting his hand to his forehead and wiping it down his face before looking at Derek again.

"Why am I getting the feeling that getting information from you is gonna be like pulling teeth?"

"You want the truth?" Derek asked, tilting his head down and giving Stiles a hard look. "I don't know how long I've been here, I don't know what's happening or why, and no, I don't know how you died."

"What, does time move differently or something? And how can you not know how I died, didn't you just say you'd been here for a while?" Stiles asked, feeling a little uneasy at the prospect of Derek having been around, invisible, the whole time Stiles had been there. Derek rolled his eyes.

"I don't keep tabs 24/7 on every person that passes through," he replied, looking like he was getting slowly more exasperated. "And no, you idiot, time isn't different. But this isn't prison, I don't keep tally marks on the walls."

Stiles huffed, his socked feet failing to make the heavy pounding noise he'd wanted to reflect his irritation as he stomped across the room to the dining table, dragging out a chair and flinging himself into it.

Well, at least he could move shit around.

"So you have no clue what's going on? Is this some kind of if-you-die-here-you-stay-here kinda thing?"

"How should I know?"

"Don't answer my questions with questions!" Stiles bit out. "Okay, is there anything you actually do know, or are you as completely useless as you seem to be?"

Stiles felt himself almost, _almost_ regretting the words when Derek's face went dark and closed.

"You figure it out," he said, voice low and tense. Stiles noticed one fist curling at Derek's side as he turned and walked out to the porch. Stiles ignored the twinge of guilt he felt at letting his mouth run away from him, and instead focused on his envy of Derek's clomping boots. He frowned, looking down at his own feet covered in plain white socks. Couldn't he have at least died with some shoes on? For christ's sake. Then again, at least he wasn't naked.

He gave a frustrated, grunting sigh, running a hand through his hair. He looked up at the ceiling and slowly the anger ebbed out of him, leading back into the total blankness he was so familiar with. He knew his mood swings well enough to know that he was kind of in the eye of the storm; he'd had one freak out, and now he was empty, but waiting on the other side was, inevitably, more panic, unless he could distract himself out of it. But with all his stuff gone, his options were severely limited.

He had no laptop, no video games, no phone, no music… The only things he had for entertainment in the house were a bunch of books in two giant bookcases in the entrance hall, novels that had probably been bought by the owners or left behind by other renters. He'd glanced through them when he first came - a pretty solid variety, everything from classic literature to young adult, though there was a surprising amount of Stephen King. There weren't any movies, but the house did have cable… So at least there was that.

Stiles got up and looked out to the porch, noticing Derek wasn't there anymore. Stiles stood right in front of the window and squinted out. He saw someone with the same dark hair as Derek standing ankle-deep in the water, a pile of what was probably clothes and shoes further up on the shore.

Whatever. If Derek wanted to be immature and play the avoidance game, Stiles was more than qualified to play back. Stiles was the master of avoidance, read: the whole reason he ended up here.

* * *

Stiles felt like he was in a dark pit, yet again, only this time he was dead and had no real reason to try to fight his way out of it.

He tried passing time with the books, and to some degree was successful. But the desire to just curl into the couch and stare blankly at the TV that apparently didn't work when you were dead was more overpowering when there wasn't anything to make himself do.

The whole schedule he'd worked out for himself, with the waking up at a certain time, cooking, eating, forcing himself into activities, getting some exercise, back to sleep at a reasonable hour - all of that was apparently shot to hell when you were dead. He didn't need to eat, there was no point in exercising, and the books only held his interest for so long.

So, more often than not, and for long stretches of time that he wasn't proud of, he just lay on his side on the couch and drifted, which was exactly what he was doing right then.

He thought some about what his funeral must have been like. Probably some people from high school, some people from college. Maybe his advisor, Mr. Hanerman, and his hippie wife Flowers. He somehow doubted his mother's sister's family flew out from Virginia to California, especially since they'd stopped having any real relations with Stiles and Dad once Mom died. His aunt was 7 years older than Mom was, and they'd never been very close as sisters to begin with.

Did Scott say anything at the graveside? God, he was probably devastated, even if he and Stiles had been somewhat on the outs lately. And Lydia, what would she do? Odds were she'd be pissed at Stiles, angry at him for leaving, angry at herself for the last thing she said to him being "I can't help you if you don't want to be helped." He wished he could tell her that hearing that was what made him take that first big step, made him go back to his therapist. He was grateful to her. She was a good friend, and the last thing he wanted was for her to feel like she'd abandoned him.

Stiles felt like he should want to cry when he thought of never talking to them again, of never being better and able to be back in their lives as a stable and reliable friend. Hell, he'd probably never even see them again.

He wondered if he'd eventually forget what they looked like.

He rolled onto his back, looked at where a crack was forming in the paint on the ceiling. What did they bury him with? He hoped they put the keys to the Jeep in his pocket. Everything else was already divided among friends and people who'd influenced him. When Dad died and Stiles was at his lowest, he'd privately had a will drawn up. That was right after he found out what he'd inherited from Dad and insurance, and if he'd ended up doing himself in like he was feeling so inclined to, he wanted to at least leave behind help for the people he loved.

A shadowy movement caught his eye, and he twisted his head around to see Derek picking up his own book and standing from the dining room table to head back out to the beach. He stripped off his shirt as he went, and he'd apparently already taken his boots off, as the tell-tale clomping was absent.

Stiles huffed in annoyance. He was annoyed by Derek's whole… _being,_ and even more annoyed that the level of annoyance he had didn't cancel out the the strange attraction he had to the douche. This was not only annoying, but _really_ confusing, considering romantic or sexual (hell even a general) interest in other people hadn't featured in his thoughts as more than a "I should probably want to flirt with and/or have sex with this person" since everything went to hell. There was a spark he felt when looking at Derek that he hadn't felt in a long damn time, and it was extremely frustrating.

It was especially annoying to have annoyance be the strongest feeling he had that wasn't sadness, anxiety, or fury.

So, he'd admit that, okay, sure, between thoughts of his death, his past, and general floating depression, his thoughts sometimes, maybe, _occasionally,_ drifted to his new permanent housemate. Seriously though, not that often.

But when they did happen to wander in that direction, Stiles had more than a few questions, and about zero way to answer any of them.

It started with still being sort of focused on the desire to know how long Derek had been there. He'd had a minor freak out about Derek possibly seeing Stiles' multiple panic attacks while he'd been at the house, or doing something creepy, like watching him shower or sleep, but Derek didn't seem to pay attention to much of anything, and Stiles knew he wasn't actually interesting enough to pique the curiosity of the brick wall that was Derek.

He wanted to know how Derek died. Where in the house he'd died. Did he have a family? Friends? Any kind of life at all? He seemed like the type of asshole that people avoided, because he came off as mean and unhelpful and rude and frustrating and just. Ugh.

What the hell was his damage, anyway? They didn't even know each other, there was no reason to be as big of a dick as he'd been when Stiles first… woke up, and then he'd way overreacted when Stiles gave him a taste of his own medicine. Dude had barely even acknowledged Stiles' existence since then, and when he did look at Stiles, his face was completely unreadable. But sightings of Derek were few and far between. He seemed to always be leaving whatever room Stiles entered, and spent long stretches of time of outside, lying around on the beach or standing in the ocean as far out as he could.

He wondered if Derek was drifting when he was out there, much like Stiles lay drifting while camped out on the couch.

Stiles had to admit that, while his annoyance with Derek was annoying ( _har har_ ), his interest in Derek was kind of a relief, a nice break from feeling like he was just spiraling downward in a double helix of blankness and crushing sadness, with no end in sight. Even if it was mild anger (not rage fits, thank you god) and annoyance, it was nice to feel something other than what he'd dubbed "the void." And he wondered, could he get more out of it?

He just wanted to feel things again.

He had enough curiosity that he found himself abruptly sitting up, paying full attention as Derek went out onto the porch and disappeared down the steps. Jaw tightening in resolve as he finally gave in to the itch to know more, Stiles followed him out.

He found Derek rummaging around the storage closet underneath the house, and paused for a moment to admire the curve of Derek's ass as he bent over to pick up a beach chair. Stiles was casually leaning against one of the support pillars when Derek turned and noticed him, and Stiles savored the note of irritation on his face.

"So, I was wondering," Stiles started, glancing at the ground for a second, only to look up and see Derek begin to wander past him. Okay, so the ignoring game was still on. Awesome. "Just hang on a minute, would you? I'm trying to hand you an olive branch here. It's not like either of us is going anywhere, and I'd like to not spend the rest of forever talking to myself, leading to eventual madness and a real haunting of this place."

"Better talking yourself into being crazy than both of us," Derek replied, not bothering to stop or face Stiles. Stiles shot the bird at his back before stepping up his pace to move around and stand in front of Derek, blocking his path.

"Okay, look. I get that you have, like, issues. Everybody has issues, and I also get that your thing is to be a rude dick-"

"If you're trying to make peace you're doing a pretty shitty job so far."

"-by doing things such as _interrupting people who are speaking to you_ , but we're stuck here, buddy, and I'm kind of tired of the weirdo mixture of tension and pretending I don't exist. It depresses me," Stiles said, maybe a little more honest than he'd meant to be.

Derek snorted, moving his gaze purposefully past Stiles before stepping around him and continuing toward the shore. "I'm not the one who's making you depressed, you brought that baggage here the second you drove up to the house."

Stiles felt slapped, and anger started stirring below the surface of his thoughts. He tried, half-succeeding, to push it down. "Okay, point, but I have my reasons for being as fucked as I am. At least I don't let them turn me into an asshole."

Lie.

But Derek didn't have to know that.

"No, they just turn you into someone who loses it at least three times a day with no discernible trigger," Derek responded, and though his face remained impassive, Stiles felt like he was being sneered at, which made him bristle and start to tip over into _losing it_ \- but in anger, this time.

"What the fuck, man? Seriously?" Stiles shook his head. "No, you know what, what the _fuck_ is your problem? What's got your panties in such a fucking twist that you can say something like that to me?"

Derek finally stopped, but instead of looking at Stiles, he started unfolding the beach chair. Stiles almost literally kicked his ass to send him toppling face forward into the sand, but before he could make the decision to actually do it, Derek straightened up and turned to face him, eyebrows furrowed in irritation.

"Look. We," Derek gestured back and forth between them, "Are dead. Just because we're stuck in the same place does not make us friends. And _that's_ my problem."

Stiles eyed him for a moment, really not understanding what Derek was trying to say.

"So are you saying that your problem is that we're not friends…? Because that's what I got from that. You seriously need to work on using your words so people can understand you."

Derek's jaw ticked, and it took a second before he responded.

"My problem is that you're here. My problem is that since you've gotten here, all you've done is mope around the house and have fits, and now you're stuck here with me forever, and all you'll probably do is continue to mope around and have fits. All I wanted after I died was to be left alone, but now you've been dumped on me. So, go figure, I'm choosing to ignore you."

Buttons all pushed.

The blood around Stiles' brain was reaching boiling point, his face flushing hot and his eyes burning. He felt like his throat was swollen, but when he swallowed the knot away, it was like unstopping emotions that had been buried deep, and all the anger came blasting out.

"Mope and have fits?! Mope and... _FUCK_ YOU! They're panic attacks, asshole, and I've been out of my mind depressed, just, _fuck you_ , you have _no right_ to comment on any of my shit. None! It's not my fucking fault! I can't fucking control it! Do you have any idea what it's like to be at the mercy of your own head, to deal with shit that pulls and pushes at you so you're always on the brink of going off the fucking the wall? I can't even function like a goddamn normal human being, _fuck me then_ , look at Stiles, just mopes around the house and has fits. Not like he's completely alone in the world or anything! Not like he's fighting himself every step of the way! It's not like he has to make himself consciously take each step, every minute of every fucking day!

"I'm a sack of shit, I hate myself, but I bust my ass to try and get better so I can make up with the people I left behind while I had my little pity party. So you can take your judgmental bullshit and _shove it up your ass_. If you lived with the knowledge that your existence killed the only family you had, if you knew that you broke your best friend by telling him to fuck off every time he just tried to talk to you, if you'd completely blown your life because you're too much of a fucking wreck to deal with anything, yeah, you'd _mope and have fits too._ "

Stiles was panting by the time he was done with his rant, and was embarrassed when he noticed that his cheeks were wet. He wouldn't give Derek the satisfaction of seeing him wipe at his eyes, the asshole, who was… Just watching Stiles.

Stiles held under Derek's intense gaze, not daring to relax the tension he felt throughout his entire body. It was Derek who broke their little contest, glancing down and then out to the ocean for a moment, before returning his attention to Stiles.

Derek took a step forward, and, impossibly, Stiles felt himself tense further. When Derek's hand rose and fell on Stiles' shoulder, a gentle touch out of frickin' _nowhere_ , what the hell, Stiles felt himself flinch and then deflate a little. Derek grasped him more firmly, and leaned in, looking directly into Stiles' eyes.

"You're not the only person who's ever been through this. People survive; it's what they do."

Stiles clenched his jaw and shrugged Derek's hand away roughly.

"You think I don't know that?" he spat. "I'm perfectly aware of how weak I am for not being able to keep it together."

Derek stepped back, turned and faced out toward the ocean again.

"It's not weakness," he said. Stiles waited, but that seemed to be all he was going to say. Stiles looked out at the ocean as well, fizzling with annoyance and the adrenaline after-shocks of raging, unable to keep looking at Derek.

"Well, it's not like it matters much anymore," he said, letting out a shaky, bitter huff of laughter. "I'm already dead."

* * *

Two days of less-hostile-but-still-there silence later, Stiles was working his way through _No Exit_ (it was kind of fitting, really) when he thought he heard a car pull up the gravel driveway. He set his book on his chest and listened closely, and sure enough, a car door slammed shut. Someone was there.

Another renter? Well, this was going to be weird. And shitty, if Stiles had to give up his couch.

He heard heavy footfalls as Derek ran up the back steps and burst through the backdoor. Stiles blinked at him in surprise, shooting up from the couch, and Derek glanced at him briefly before turning around to close the - to close the already closed door.

Wait. Since when did doors start closing on their own around here? Stiles had to do every goddamn thing himself, and if Derek had been holding out on him, if he'd been able to do shit with hismindthis whole time, they were going to have words.

But not at this very moment, because as Stiles eyed him, took in his curled fists and his glower, a nervous feeling sparked a shiver through his body.

What the hell?

Stiles heard keys jangling, and in the next second a pretty brunette woman shoved open the front door and made her way inside.

She seemed distracted, balancing coffee, keys, and a stack of papers. She dropped everything on the dining room table and unzipped her messenger bag, pulling out a laptop.

Stiles looked back to Derek, who was noticeably tense, and looking a little crazy in the eyes. His fists were clenched at his sides, and he stared steadily at the woman, who, upon closer inspection, had the same coloring, nose, and cheekbones as Derek.

"She related to you?" Stiles asked, gesturing to the woman. Derek glanced at him briefly before exhaling through his nose and turning to brace himself on the counter. His shoulders were so tense Stiles bet they'd actually make a noise if he knocked on them.

"She's my sister," Derek ground out, "Laura."

As Stiles moved into the kitchen, he noticed Derek's knuckles had gone white from his crushing grip on the counter.

Stiles turned back to the woman - Derek's sister, _Laura_ \- and watched her as she went to work on whatever it was she was doing. He tried to think of a way to diffuse the tension he felt radiating from Derek, but what the hell did you say to someone that pissed off about seeing a family member? _Sorry you're dead, sucks you can't talk anymore?_ Somehow he didn't think that'd go over well.

Laura put on some music, something abstract, probably the score from a movie or something, and Derek turned and grabbed the hideous decorative bird statue and hurled it against the wall. Stiles winced, expecting a loud impact and possible breakage, but there was nothing. When he looked back, the bird statue was sitting like it'd never been moved, and Derek had deflated from furious to frustrated.

Laura paused the music, looking around briefly, brows furrowed. She shook her head a little, and then turned back to her work, tapping away for another moment before shutting the laptop. She picked up the second bag she'd brought in with her, taking out a fancy-looking camera and a contracted tripod. It was quiet as she set up, and Stiles started to itch with questions. But, surprisingly, Derek beat him to breaking the silence.

"She hates being here, but she'd rather do it herself than hire someone else," he said quietly. Stiles looked back at him, seeing more clearly the anger in Derek that had been visible, but below the surface, ever since they'd met.

"So she owns the house?" Stiles asked, trying to keep the questions light, despite burning with curiosity.

"Now she does," Derek said bitterly.

Stiles wasn't sure what else to say for a moment, but somehow he felt like he needed to keep Derek talking. There was something about right now that felt important, almost like that feeling that he'd gotten that time he'd been _that close_ to missing a flight, only this weighed more heavily because he knew the next one might never come.

"Then you weren't just some renter... This place was yours."

"Partially. Mom left it to both of us," Derek said, shifting his gaze from Laura down to the counter. His face suddenly contorted, and he kicked out hard against the cabinets, but his foot never connected and there wasn't any sound. "I can't even fucking let her know I'm here!" he spat, slamming his fist on the counter, but again, making no connection and no noise. He looked up at Stiles, eyes wild and nostrils flared. "Nothing works! _Nothing_! I've thrown things, beat things, screamed myself hoarse, but there isn't a damn thing she notices. It all stays the same!"

Stiles hesitantly walked closer to Derek, who was breathing heavily, cheeks flushed from frustration and anger. After a moment he closed his mouth and hung his head, but Stiles could see the clench of his teeth in the tension of his jaw.

It was the most expression Stiles had seen from Derek. He was a little scared, but too fascinated to just back away and let him explode privately.

There was a nasty part of him that told him to evil-smirk at Derek, watch _him_ have a fit so he could throw Derek's own fucked up words back at him. Stiles definitely hadn't been below that sort of behavior in the past. But there was still that niggling feeling of the importance of everything that was happening here. The kinder side of Stiles was overpowering any negativity, and that was what pulled at him, what made him keep stepping closer until he was standing next to Derek, who locked eyes with Stiles as he felt him approach. They just looked at each other for a moment, Stiles finally breaking eye contact when he turned around, facing where Laura was snapping pictures around the living room and dining area. His eyes followed her movements, and he really saw the resemblance between her and Derek, both in their features and mannerisms.

"Maybe it's better if she doesn't know," Stiles ventured, quietly. "What good would it do? You can't leave, she can't hear you. It'd just be like... torture, for both of you," Stiles said, glancing at Derek, whose face was hard but his body less tense.

"She's alone. I left her alone," Derek said, eyes fixed on Laura. "She doesn't have anymore family."

Stiles didn't say anything for a moment, thinking about how he'd felt so isolated when Dad was gone, when it'd finally settled in his gut that the only family he had left was across the country and hadn't even made it to the funeral. But tailing those thoughts were the thoughts of his own progress that he'd been making in moving on, before he died himself. And then he thought back on something Derek had said to him before.

"She'll survive, man. Remember what you told me? People survive, it's what they do."

Derek leaned down on the counter again, bracing his forearms, eyes shut.

"You don't get it. It's my fault. Everything. It's my fault they're gone, it's my fault that she broke down in the fall out. _I_ got them killed, _I_ broke her down, and now _I've_ left her alone."

Stiles watched Derek carefully, but Derek stayed very still, breathing now shallow.

There was something about the way that Derek looked that made Stiles want to blurt out his own story. He got the feeling that he'd worn the same expression Derek was, and he found that comforting. It pulled at his chest, made him feel like there were things he needed to say, right then, that this was a moment he needed.

Stiles took a deep breath, getting ready to tear open wounds that had barely scabbed over.

"My parents are dead because of me," he started, turning his eyes away from Derek, not able to look at him as he went into this. He kept his eyes on the opposite wall as he continued, "Or, that's what I've been telling myself ever since Mom died. I was kind of a fucked up kid... I acted out a lot. I was, like, the definition of ADHD, but on steroids. I was restless, pulled all kinds of stunts that got me in a lot of trouble, basically caused my parents more stress than quadruplets.

"Mom was a smoker. She'd started when she was 15, and quit when she was 27, when they were trying to have a baby. She started again when I turned four, and it got heavier the worse I was. I hated that she did it, and back then I didn't really correlate that stress was what made her. I did shit like hide her packs or break all the cigarettes, because every kid knows that smoking is bad for you. She never got on to me for doing it though, like maybe she knew I was just trying to be helpful. She loved me, seriously. And I loved her, too. I remember wanting to be a good kid... I don't know why I was so shitty at it.

"Dad tried to get her to quit, too, especially when the hacking coughs started up. I remember sneaking downstairs, and sometimes Dad would be sleeping on the couch because Mom coughed in her sleep. When she went to the doctor, big surprise, cancer. She started treatment, but all it did was make her die slower," Stiles took a shaky breath, rolled his eyes up to the ceiling and pulled everything in him together to keep going. "I didn't fully get what was happening. I was nine. But I did know that she got sick because she smoked, and about a month before she died I was watching TV in her hospital room, and some lady on some show started talking about how she wanted to quit smoking, but she was just too stressed out from work and the kids and her crazy friendships or something.

"That was when the pieces fell into place. I was essentially the reason Mom was dying. I stressed her out, I made her smoke, it was _my fault_. I blamed myself, and even though Dad said I shouldn't, that it wasn't me, _I_ knew it was. That's when the panic attacks started, when I had to get into therapy, and they told me it wasn't my fault, but I still knew. So that was one parent."

Stiles glanced at Derek, and saw he was watching him, expression as unreadable as ever. It was a little weird getting no feedback from Derek, but somehow it almost made it easier to spill his guts. Feeling a little more confident, but draining fast emotionally, Stiles pushed on.

"Then there's Dad. Dad, who was left alone with this fucked up kid who was not only hyper with behavior problems, but now had mental issues to top that off. He didn't know what to do. He took me to a special psychiatrist, someone his friend had recommended, and they put me on low doses of Wellbutrin until I could get a better grip on the freak-outs and depression. It ended up helping some with the ADHD issues, too, which was good, and when I came off it they put me on Adderall. I got better, got better grades, got rid of most of the behavioral problems. Dad and I did our best to move on, but... Dad was still wearing his wedding ring a year ago, when he died. I buried him with it on his finger, even though he left it to me in his will." Stiles stopped, feeling his throat squeeze and his eyes and nose tingle. He took a deep breath, but he still felt like he was being strangled. When he looked at Derek, their eyes met and held, and, slowly, he felt himself start to relax, the invisible grip on his throat loosening. There was an openness in Derek's face where there definitely hadn't been before, and it helped Stiles' tension drain from him.

"What happened?" Derek prompted. Stiles broke eye contact and looked down at the floor.

"I'd stopped most of the drinking junior year of college, because Dad was worried and I didn't want to stress him, he already had a bad heart, and god knows I'd put him through enough over the years. And it was so fucking stupid, but I was at this party last year, and Scott's date got completely trashed. Since I was their ride, I ended up taking them home early, which, cool, right? I'd only had like two beers. But I got busted because I pulled a rolling stop, and bam, got a DUI.

"Nobody had the money to bail me, so I ended up having to call Dad at, like, midnight to get the bail money, and he was so pissed that he told me he was coming down on his next day off so he could personally tear me a new asshole." Stiles stopped, wiped a hand down his face and rested it as his throat, where he massaged the lump there same as he fought the tears in his eyes. "He didn't make it, because halfway there some idiot texting flew across the median and broke his own neck and my killed my Dad on impact," Stiles had to stop again, this time tears prickling too hard at his eyes, and when he blinked, they spilled. Derek stayed quiet, waiting, and Stiles continued on, words breaking. "I had to identify the body. And after that, after I lost him, after, once again, it was _my fault_ that I'd lost someone I love, the only real family I had left, I just fucking fell apart. Slowly, but fuck did I. I lost my friends, I flunked out of grad school, I drank myself sick like every day. I was depressed as fuck and numb, and if I wasn't that, I was angry. I finally got a kick in the ass, and called 911 to check myself into inpatient because I was a hair away from popping a bottle of aspirin and chasing it with a fifth of vodka.

"In that psych ward was the first time I'd told anyone since I was 11 that I still believed it was me, that I killed Mom, and by then, Dad. And the people there kept drilling it into my head that it wasn't my fault, that Mom's decisions were her own and with Dad... sometimes bad shit just happens. I sorta got through feeling like a murderer and started handling things a little better. And I know now, logically, that it wasn't me. But you've seen me. Doesn't matter if I'm having a panic attack or if I'm on that fucking couch like a zombie, I'm always thinking about how it's all my fault.

"Maybe one day I'll believe it isn't. Fuck, that was what I was working toward before I died in this stupid house. But I do know if I don't stop, I'm gonna really go crazy. I'm gonna be more miserable than I've ever been, and though sometimes I don't care, I know I shouldn't want that." Stiles paused a minute, looking down at his feet and giving a rueful smile. "It's... Kinda pointless now, isn't it?" He looked back up, meeting Derek's eyes. "But I'm fucking sick of it, and I bet you're sick of your shit, too."

Stiles couldn't hold the eye contact long, and quickly turned his head back down, rubbing at his eyes and trying to compose himself. He felt raw, like he'd just been skinned and was waiting for someone to either dump salt on the exposed flesh or put a healing balm on it. He was drained, suddenly exhausted. He found that he simultaneously did and didn't care about what Derek thought, what he would say in response to Stiles' story.

When he looked up, Derek was watching him closely, and Laura was still taking pictures in the background. He looked a little skeptical, a little confused, a little vulnerable, like maybe he wanted to tell his own story, but wasn't sure what was compelling him to do so. Stiles held him in an intense gaze for what felt like a long, long time, but right when Derek opened his mouth there was a crashing noise that had them both jumping and Laura yelling in surprise.

"Shit! Shit, just... Shit." She cursed from the front hall, and Derek made his way around the counter into the den to see what'd happened. Stiles hesitated, then followed, curious, only to see Laura standing with her face in her hands and the camera smashed on the floor. She was shaking, like she was sobbing, but when she looked up after several moments, her eyes were dry despite her flushed face.

Derek made to reach for her, but curled his hand back toward himself before he could make contact, and Stiles realized that he couldn't touch her. He suddenly felt like an intruder, seeing the devastation followed by anger that twisted Derek's face as he was forced to see how fragile his sister was, with no way to help keep her together.

She took a deep breath and started picking up the pieces scattered across the floor, taking them to the counter and spreading them out to look at the damage. Derek stayed where he was, and looked hard at where the camera itself was still attached to the base of the tripod, as if he could mentally blow it up for causing sudden distress to Laura. Stiles didn't say anything, just stared at the broken camera with Derek, waiting for what was next with uncertainty as well as a patience he didn't know he possessed.

"I don't know how I died," Derek said on an exhale, sounding breathy, tired. "I woke up one day in the front yard, and when I couldn't find my phone, I went for the landline. But all I could hear was static," he said, eyes sort of glazed over. He looked frustrated, and he spoke slowly, like he had to think over his words before he could get them out. "My car was gone, and all the lawn equipment I'd been using had been put up. I didn't... I didn't _get_ _it_ until I tried to leave, to walk next door and see if I could borrow a phone to call Laura. You can guess what happened when I did that.

"No one came for at least a week. I tried everything I could think of - swimming out into the ocean, walking out either way to the sides of the beach, through the yards, anything I could do to leave. But nothing worked." Derek paused there, exhaled harshly with his nostrils flared wide, lips pursed. Stiles immediately thought of like ten different "constipated" jokes, but even he knew that saying shit like that at a time like this would ruin his whole afterlife. "Finally, one day, Laura came by with some guy who wanted to write about the history of the house. That... was the worst. Because I did everything, _everything_ I could to get her attention, but I couldn't move anything, couldn't make any noise, and she couldn't hear me, even when I was screaming.

"They didn't stay for that long, just long enough for her to give the tour and the rundown of everything, but I felt like I was going crazy. And she was-" Derek stopped, and though his face didn't change, Stiles could see him swallow harshly, and knew that he was fighting back some heavy emotion. "She looked like she wasn't all there. Like she'd lost something, like something had finally killed off that last piece of her that was there after the fire. And that's when I knew that I was dead."

Derek looked away from the camera, eyes coming to rest on Laura's back. "Breaking a camera never would have made her cry before. She'd curse the thing, curse the floor, maybe smash it a little more," Derek said, then huffed a dark laugh. "We both had some anger issues after we lost everyone, but she'd always come out of her anger with a joke, while I just... Stayed angry. She made fun of me, called me stupid pet nicknames that used the word "frown," and she was the only one who could get me to laugh," Derek turned and met Stiles' eyes. "I didn't deserve to laugh anymore, but she wanted me to. And when I couldn't, she'd get this look on her face like it was breaking her down. So I tried to get it together, for her at least," he looked away again. "Then I just ended up dead, and now she's alone. No one survived the fire, and now I'm gone, and it's my fault."

Stiles waited, not sure if Derek was going to continue. He'd mentioned a fire a few times now, and Stiles didn't have to be a genius to guess that that was how his family died, but he was curious to know why Derek seemed to blame himself for both the fire and his own death. Especially since he said he didn't know how he'd died... Seriously, how could he blame himself for that if he didn't know?

Laura came back into the front hall and picked up the camera and tripod, disconnecting the two and putting them both back into the camera bag. She left, and a moment later returned with a broom and dustpan.

Stiles took the time to look at her, to really try and read her face for evidence of a loss. And he could see it clearly, noticed shadows like bruises under her eyes, saw the blotchiness in her complexion, like she hadn't been eating right or drinking enough water, or... drinking too much alcohol. Her cheekbones stuck out too sharply, and he could see the bones beneath her forehead, and though she was wearing clothes too baggy to really tell, he guessed that she was underweight, too.

Stiles took a moment to think, feeling himself itch with questions, but he knew he'd have to be careful about how he asked them if he didn't want to set Derek into a negative spiral. Everything felt so damn delicate, like he was walking on a tightrope made out of thread, but he couldn't deny that he _wanted_ to walk it, because he felt like on the other side was something he really wanted. He couldn't say what, exactly, but he felt like he was reaching for something, and that in and of itself, the fact that he was _trying_ for something and not just letting the world pass by, was enough to make him want to keep going. He wanted to do this right.

"I know this is kind of stupid to say, but it's not your fault that you died," Stiles said, watching Laura methodically sweep up the smaller broken bits and pieces of camera. "You can't blame yourself for something that you didn't do." And here Stiles quirked a half smile, though he didn't look at Derek, and said, "Maybe if I say it enough, it'll drill into your head same as I try to do mine."

Derek didn't move, just kept his eyes fixed on Laura, but Stiles saw his jaw clench a little, though otherwise he was just frowning.

"I know it doesn't really help to hear it," Stiles began. "Hell, I just got done explaining all my shit to you, and you know I still have trouble believing it. But step one is somebody telling you like it is, that it really isn't your fault.

"The other truth bomb I'm gonna drop on you right now is that she'll get better. You said it, remember? So _know it_. She's in a bad place right now, but after I hit my lowest, after I really lost everything, I did end up choosing to keep going. And it looks like she's done the same, that she's just keepin' on goin', little engine that faced a freak blizzard and tornado and carried cargo twice its capacity up freaking Mt. Everest and still could. She's fragile, but she's not broken. And you know what else I think?" Stiles paused for just a bare second, worried that he'd lose the courage and resolve to say what he wanted to. "I think that you're not broken, either. Cracked, frayed, tattered, blah blah, yeah," and here he turned, looked directly at Derek, who met his eyes with a somewhat hostile look. "But not broken."

Derek eyed him, practically gave him the stink eye, but Stiles could see the moment where he mentally threw his hands in the air, giving up, and Stiles congratulated himself.

"I hate that I can't even tell you that you don't know the first thing about being broken or... Cracked, or whatever, or that you don't know anything about guilt," Derek said, looking annoyed. "But I'm not that much of an asshole."

Stiles smiled at him. "Good, because otherwise I'd have to kick your ass, and I have zero clue of how a ghostly spirit fight would even work, and I'm really not all that inclined to find out whether or not the fact that you have significantly more muscle mass than I do would still have an effect in this situation."

Derek huffed at him, and Stiles didn't know if it even counted as a laugh, because Derek's face turned hard again.

"Maybe it's not my fault I'm dead. But everything else, all the other things that make her hurt... Those are my fault. If I just hadn't-" he cut himself off, clenching his jaw again, and Stiles saw him grind his teeth for a second. "One of my girlfriends burned my house down, with 12 people - my entire family - inside."

Derek said the words like they'd been ripped from somewhere deep inside him, like he'd taken out his core and laid it out for Stiles to see. Stiles was frozen for a moment, breath caught mid-intake, but soon enough he was in motion again, finishing the inhale and then exhaling "Damn," forcefully. Derek was quiet as Stiles composed his thoughts.

"She used you to attack your family," he said, finally. Derek nodded, a jerk of his head, his eyes staring hard at Laura. "Derek. Look at me," Stiles said firmly. He waited for a long moment before Derek turned his eyes on him, and Stiles met the defensiveness there with an offense that he hoped Derek wasn't expecting. "It's okay to be pissed off. It's okay to be sad or depressed or wanna to rip somebody limb from limb and stab your pillow with a pocket knife. It's okay to feel like something in you died, or that you're drowning and taking down everyone around you with it. But here's the real pisser, and one I fucking laughed at the first time I heard it: feelings aren't facts, man. I know you feel like the world's biggest grade-A asshole for trusting a psycho, but it's not like you knew. Just because you blame yourself doesn't make it your fault, and the sooner you and I both realize that about our personal shit, the sooner we can stop being so fucking angry and dead inside."

They watched each other for a long time, and Stiles felt like he'd just won a war and now they were signing the treaty. It wasn't until they heard Laura's keys jangle as she picked them up from the dining table that they broke away from each other, and together they watched her leave.

"Easier said than done," Derek said as Laura pulled out of the driveway. Stiles looked sideways at him and smiled crookedly.

"Tell me about it."


	2. Chapter 2

"You _cannot_ use a made up thing from Harry Potter as a word!"

"It's not a proper noun, and I'm like 98% sure I saw it on the Merriam-Webster online dictionary," Stiles countered, surprisingly and pleasantly actually _amused_ at Derek's pouting.

"No," Derek said, stubborn. "I refuse to let you play the word 'quaffle.' There's _no_ _way_ it's in the actual, _legitimate_ dictionary."

"Quaffle is a perfectly legitimate word, dude."

Derek pressed his lips into a thin line, glaring at Stiles as if trying to make the power of such a look force Stiles to submit.

After The Night of Share and Care, as Stiles had dubbed it (though it was only just the night before), he and Derek had come to an understanding. It was obvious that, alone, they were both spiraling down and collapsing in on themselves, and after Laura left and they'd stood quietly together for a long stretch of time, Stiles had finally suggested that they try to do this together, or at least to get along. Not to be so isolated.

He hadn't really expected Derek to agree at first, because Derek's words about wanting to be left alone were still pretty fresh in Stiles' head. But Derek had, in so few words, told Stiles he was willing to try to make this whole "dead-and-stuck-together" thing work. He said they should sleep on it, and Stiles had bug-eyed dropped his jaw and blurted, " _Sleep?!_ " like the word had somehow personally offended him. Derek had rolled his eyes and said, " _Just shut yourself down, you'll wake up in a few hours, you never stay out long,_ " and left Stiles to figure it out.

So Stiles went up to his attic room and lay down on the comfy bed, and at the thought of sleep and "shutting off," as Derek had so eloquently put it, he fell into some kind of weird darkness, waking up what he assumed was the next day to the sun poking through the yellow curtains.

He'd met Derek on the beach, where they sat around for a few hours that morning, quiet, but it wasn't long until Stiles felt an energy that hadn't been around in a while, the kind of energy that set his mouth running and put ants in his pants, giving him the feeling that he needed to be doing _something_. It was surprising, but he'd taken it and run. It was just - he felt like he had a goal again, something he hadn't had since he died, and something he'd had trouble buying into even when he was alive. It wasn't nearly as magnified as the kind of drive he'd had before the... before, but it was enough that he'd poked at Derek and asked if there was anything to do around there other than beach bum and read.

Which led them to their current situation, arguing over words in Scrabble, and Stiles found himself - wait for it - _enjoying_ engaging another person.

Seriously, having actual good feelings - small, maybe, but still there - about something (anything) was the best ever.

"I'm not letting you play 'quaffle.'"

"Oh, c'mon man, I let you play 'bibble' on a triple word score, and I'm pretty sure you just smashed together 'bite' and 'nibble' to get that."

"Bibble _is_ a word, it's not my fault that your vocabulary sucks."

Stiles rolled his eyes. "Yeah, but you are at least partially responsible for the noticeable lack of dictionary around here. Who has a Scrabble game but no dictionary?"

Derek sighed through his nose, casting his own eyes upward (quite possibly begging the powers that be for patience) before settling them back on Stiles.

"No quaffle."

"Yes quaffle."

Derek leaned forward, staring Stiles down.

"No. Quaffle."

Stiles pursed his lips and held eye contact with Derek for a long moment before flailing one hand in exasperation, though internally he was becoming more and more amused.

"Fine! Spoilsport," Stiles said, making a show of taking back some of his letters and rearranging the others. "There, 'equal.' Happy now, picky pansy?"

"I'm not being picky, half the words you want to play aren't even _words_ ," Derek said, face frowny but body relaxed. "You tried to play 'splunker' earlier, like I wouldn't know the difference. I'm wondering if I should be insulted."

"I'm just testing you out, getting a feel for what I'm up against."

"You mean you want to know if you can get away with cheating."

"I never!" Stiles gasped, mock-insulted. "I'll have you know I am so straight-laced I can't even tie shoes."

"Good thing you'll never need to again," Derek said, nodding down at Stiles' socked feet. Stiles huffed a little, feigning indignity.

"Low blow, man, it's not my fault I died in my pj's with no shoes on," Stiles wiggled his toes in his socks.

Whatever haunting type thing he was doing here with Derek, an interesting thing to note was that he would never again lose his socks or any other item of clothing on his person. Somehow whatever he was missing always ended up right where he happened to be looking, even if there wasn't a chance that he'd left it there. Last night he'd taken his socks off to "sleep," and when he thought of his socks again that morning in the kitchen after coming in from the beach, he found them in the sink, put there by some creepy magic.

Derek shrugged. "Could have been worse," he said, and Stiles' brain immediately jumped to something he'd thought of his second day dead.

"So I'm not the only one here who's thankful that they didn't kick the bucket in their birthday suit."

Derek gave him a flat look. "Thank god I don't do yardwork naked and you actually wear clothes in the house."

Stiles snorted a laugh, surprised by Derek's dry sense of humor, but even more surprised that he was really laughing.

He was so busy having major internal analysis concerning a genuine reaction that he almost missed Derek's little, tiny, _eensy_ half-smile, and something in him that had long been cold and dead started, just barely, to ease and warm. It was kind of like a spark in a blizzard, but he'd take it any day.

Also, Derek doing naked yard work wasn't a bad thought... Until Stiles thought of the grass and the dirt in unpleasant places. But, moving on, there were some things he'd like to know.

"Have you had some renters of the "love-the-naked" variety since you've been here?" Stiles asked. Derek was probably above shuddering, but Stiles didn't miss his small facial twitch. "You have, haven't you! Oh my god, who was it and were there multiple people? Was it like, a whole _family_ of nakeds?"

"You're ridiculous," Derek answered, but didn't say anything else.

"Oh, come on! You can't just leave it at that, my curiosity is literally going to cause me to spontaneously combust, and I will set this whole place into a ghostly blaze."

Derek gave him some serious side-eye (though he was still looking directly at him? That's pretty magical), but sure enough, he caved to Stiles' pressure.

"It was just this older couple, probably retired, maybe mid-sixties. They were... comfortable in their skin, I guess. I spent a lot of time outside."

It was apparent to Stiles that Derek was a little uncomfortable, but trying to hide it. Stiles chose to pry deeper anyway.

"Did they close the blinds?"

Derek hesitated for a second before responding, "The ones in the bedroom, but that was probably more to keep out the sun than to stop other people from seeing them."

Stiles sat back, a little stunned. "Well, props to them. I'm a "naked in my own room in my own house with the curtains shut" kind of guy m'self, but I'm not judging," Stiles said. Derek raised his eyebrows, and Stiles squirmed a little before scoffing. "What, like you don't sit around bare-assed sometimes. It's a thing, everybody does it at least every once in awhile."

There was silence for just long enough that Stiles started feeling the itch to fill it, but right when he opened his mouth Derek said, "It's not something I advertise." And despite the awesome mental picture Stiles was getting of Derek in a sexy naked lounging position on the couch, Stiles was starting to suspect that Derek's long pauses weren't social ineptitude so much as seeing how long Stiles could go without opening his trap.

In spite of the irritation he felt at Derek's possible Mess with Stiles game, he could feel his face heat. Just, goddammit, he really didn't want his Derek boner to be seen from space here. He managed to keep relatively cool though.

"See?" Stiles started, clearing his throat a little before continuing. "Everybody does it. By the way, it's your play."

Stiles contemplated Derek as Derek contemplated his letters and the board. There were bits and pieces falling into place, even though he probably said one word to every ten of Stiles'. But Stiles was starting to put together a picture of who Derek was underneath the grumpy douche he'd first met, and he found it was cool to get to know somebody, and though he was definitely still forcing it a little (especially initiating, which, unfortunately, was left almost totally up to him), getting to know and interacting with Derek was a lot easier than most of the things he'd been making himself do over the last month and a half.

It wasn't necessarily Derek himself that was making Stiles feel better, but rather that he and Derek understood each other and were both actively pursuing feeling better for themselves by seeking other people. Stiles hadn't had anyone but his therapist for about two months now - and she'd only come in a month ago - having done a pretty damn good job of alienating his friends. He felt like he was taking a big step for himself, and he was guessing that Derek was feeling and doing the same. Hell, one of the things he'd been supposed to be working on for his therapy, something that he'd been noticeably avoiding, was building a support network. Once he finally admitted that he didn't want to approach his friends until he had his shit together more, his therapist had suggested some local grief/depression support groups, none of which he'd brought himself to go to. As it was, he'd barely been able to leave the house for groceries and therapy.

He thought that this thing with Derek could be really good, if they somehow managed to let it be.

Derek leaned forward with a handful of letters, and Stiles watched as he carefully placed them on the board.

"Okay, hold up, no, _no way_ , I refuse to believe that "mungo" is a word. I'm not letting you get away with that "m" on a triple-letter because right now, at this moment, you are making shit up."

Derek smirked a little and shrugged.

"Still not my fault that your vocabulary sucks."

* * *

It was the kind of day that Stiles really liked, especially on the beach - a few clouds in the sky to interrupt the sun every now and then, warm but pleasant with the nice, perpetual ocean breeze. He was currently planted next to Derek, both of them in the somewhat shitty beach chairs from the storage room under the house.

It was bright as fuck, the water and sand reflecting the sun even when it was hidden by clouds, and Stiles found himself wishing for some sunglasses, and wondered if he could find any in the house. Which, there was an interesting thought, because what would someone see if they were to stumble upon them on the beach? Some sunglasses floating above a chair?

Stiles looked around then, noticing people to the left and right of them out on the beach, some kids building a sandcastle with some dude that was probably the dad while the mom sat back reading something. In front of the other house there were some guys, probably late twenties, throwing a frisbee back and forth... But none of these people seemed to notice the beach chairs, and they hadn't done anything when he and Derek had carried them out and set them up. Did they just not notice?

"Hey, I've got a question," Stiles started, and ignored what he thought was Derek rolling his eyes beneath the lids. "Why don't people think it's weird that two chairs just floated across the beach and set themselves up in front of the house? I mean, if I saw that I would definitely think it was weird, or that I was going nuts. But nobody comes to check it out. What's up with that?"

Derek didn't say anything for a moment, but shrugged after a bit and replied, "I don't think they can see us."

"But don't they see the chairs?"

Derek opened his eyes and sat up a little, looking around at the other people on the beach.

"I don't think they notice anything. Maybe it's all hidden when they're not close," Derek said, but then leaned back and settled into his relaxed position again. "But I don't really know. I'm not worried about it."

"Oh c'mon, you're not the least bit curious about how our ghostly existence works?"

"Key words in that question: ghostly existence. I really don't care. We're here, and that's kind of all there is to it."

Stiles huffed, but turned Derek's words over in his head, gears turning as he wondered about distances and sightings and the way things had just stayed or put themselves back into place when Laura was in the house. Maybe with a little effort he could work out some rules for the way this whole thing worked.

"You're no fun," Stiles said, sinking back into his own chair.

"Never claimed to be."

"You suck."

"Mhmm."

Stiles tilted his head back, letting the sun shine through his eyes, causing red spots to flutter around his vision. He felt... comfortable. He was comfortable here, with Derek, sitting in the sun, not really doing or saying much of anything. The blank, stable boredom receded a little with the company, which was surprising, because for so long being with other people had only been exhausting and way too much effort to deal with. It had something he felt like he needed to get away from.

It happened kind of suddenly, realizing how lonely he'd been.

There was still a sinkhole in his chest, and something in it that tried to pull him down every time he inched his way up, but he felt like at least he had a rope to hang onto now. Derek wasn't super talkative, so when Stiles felt himself get tired, Derek's quiet disposition helped him be able to just be in another person's presence without feeling the need to engage 24/7. Until everything went to shit, he'd always felt that way around everyone, because there was that ever-present underlying itch to fill the silence... But back then he'd _wanted_ to engage people.

That had faded away as the depression worsened, especially as the alcohol and adderall abuse had gotten worse and worse. He didn't want to talk to anybody, didn't want anybody around. He alternated between not caring that he was a wreck and feeling deeply ashamed of what a mess he was, and he didn't want anyone to see him like that. He'd just wanted to be left alone.

He hadn't even been able to bring himself to try with Scott or Lydia when things hit their lowest.

But right now seemed like a good time to try to start up a conversation with Derek (or at least a conversation as far as their version of conversation went for now), so he took off with the unintentional half-opening Derek had given him.

"So what _did_ you do for fun? When you were, you know, alive?" Stiles asked, rolling his head to look over at Derek, who adjusted his position in his chair before answering.

"I didn't really do much," he started, and for a moment Stiles thought that might be all he was going to say. But he could almost see the second Derek remembered that he was trying to be a "normal" person again, and he continued on. "I liked gardening. It was... Calming, and nice to watch something I was taking care of actually grow. I liked listening to music while I did stuff. I'm pretty sure I died listening to _All Along the Watchtower_."

The idea of Derek gardening and listening to Jimi Hendrix was really fucking cute, and Stiles couldn't help the little smile he gave. He felt warm with the information, like the sun was sinking through his pores and making him feel more alive. Which, irony, but anyway.

"Somehow your taste in music is both surprising and not," Stiles said, thoughtful. "But the gardening thing is pretty awesome. And you died doing stuff in the yard, didn't you?"

"Yeah. Guess it's good to go doing something you enjoy."

"Do you remember what happened? I mean, like, how you bought the farm?"

Derek shook his head. "No. I just woke up on the ground in the middle of the day. Also, that was a terrible pun, and I hope it wasn't intentional."

Pun? Bought the farm... Oh, gardening. Right. So yeah, that hadn't been intentional, but it made Stiles snort and immediately take credit for it.

"What can I say, I'm full of awesome humor, puns included."

Derek cracked open his left eye just to give Stiles some dubious side-eye.

"Liar. That wasn't intentional at all."

"Guess you'll never know," Stiles sighed out in a sing-song, amused at Derek trying to call him out.

"You're so full of shit," Derek muttered, closing his eyes again.

"Whatever you say," Stiles said, closing his eyes as well, that tiny, warm spark inside him growing just a little.

* * *

Stiles felt empty. It was dark, a new moon, and he sat directly in the sand on the beach, gazing out into the ocean, which at the moment more resembled a pit of nothingness than the well of life that it actually was. His pyjama pants were sort of uncomfortably damp from the sand where the tide had only recently receded, but even that discomfort felt like it was a world away.

He closed his eyes, tried to savor the sea wind ruffling his hair and misting his face, but only felt a heavy blankness settle deeper within him.

Derek was sleeping, and Stiles wasn't sure what would happen if he tried to wake him up from their weirdo ghost-sleep, and anyway he wasn't sure that he and Derek were close enough for Stiles to disturb him just because he was feeling fucked up. Somehow he felt that Derek wouldn't mind being bothered as much as Stiles was imagining... But it was the same old song and dance that played every time he thought of talking to someone when he was like this, and he couldn't bring himself to reach for it because it felt like too much effort when there was always potential rejection. If Derek told him to just go away, Stiles knew he'd just start collapsing inward faster, like some kind of bad metaphor for a black hole.

He took deep breaths through his nose, the salty air a slight sting that brought him a little closer back to reality and out of his head, a parachute in the free fall of his mind.

He called on his memories of the last couple of days, the good that he'd felt punctuating the silence or downslide of his emotions. He imagined someone with him, remembered the comfort that came from another human being, someone who had no expectations of him and could just let him be, but be there, too.

It was kind of a lucky accident that it was Derek that Stiles ended up stuck with, because they each knew that the other was struggling, taking baby steps that felt huge; they were opening themselves up slowly, becoming more vulnerable with every interaction.

It was good, what he had with Derek. And it was good, too, that he could think of those feelings and have them be tangible, even if still just a little out of reach. But he was so tired of being alternately miserable, rageful, and blank, and he forced himself to hold onto those precious snapshots that made him feel like existence was worth something.

And anyway, it wasn't like he could escape _this_ if he were so inclined... But he wasn't thinking like that, wasn't going to think about it at all. There was a time when he'd flirted with it so closely, but it wasn't an option he gave himself in the weeks before he died, and he wouldn't contemplate it now if he were alive. He forced it out of his head, not only for himself, to keep himself sane, but because he felt like he'd made some kind of unspoken pact with Derek where they'd both agreed to try. That was something else to hold onto, something to help turn his parachute into a hot air balloon that could help him get back to baseline.

He wanted to feel happy again.

Something shifted in his space, that feeling when something changes slightly though your primary senses don't process it, so Stiles sat up fully and opened his eyes, catching a small movement to his right. When he looked, he saw Derek settled into the sand next to him. He was looking out at the dark water, but glanced at Stiles briefly.

"I like the moon," Derek said, quiet against the backdrop of crashing waves. "Especially the new moon. It's always made me think of renewal, like fading out from one bright step and into another," Derek gave a sardonic smile. "It's a shame I never felt like I was capable of that."

Stiles was silent for a long moment, and absently thought that it was interesting that they'd seemed to swap places, conversationally speaking.

"I guess we're kind of in a new moon at this point. I sure as shit don't feel like there's anything bright right now, even though I know I was feeling different even this morning."

"At the risk of another pun... I guess it waxes and wanes," Derek said, and Stiles snorted in spite of himself. "It's not easy."

Stiles hummed in agreement, and picked at the hem of his pyjama pants.

"I wish it would be. Just a little. Like... God, if you're listening? Throw me a fucking bone here."

Stiles' mouth lifted a little at the barely-there chuckle Derek gave.

"At least you know it's not all there is," Derek said. "It doesn't last forever."

Stiles leaned forward and pulled his legs up, resting his chin on his knees. "I just wish it wouldn't come back at all. I'm so fucking sick of it."

"I am, too."

It was said so quietly that Stiles barely caught it, but in those small words Stiles could feel a huge wave of burned-out exhaustion rolling off Derek. Stiles turned to face him, watched him for a moment.

"Well, new moon and everything," Stiles said, gesturing up with one hand and sighing. He opened his mouth to say more, but stopped, for once feeling like he'd said all that was needed. Instead he turned his attention back to the ocean.

"Yeah," Was all Derek replied, but the quiet that followed was easier, more comfortable, and somehow Stiles was relieved.

They sat like that until the sun started to change the colors of the sky, going inside before it finished rising.

Stiles went to bed, and fell asleep with some vague unidentifiable better-ness running in an undercurrent in his head.

* * *

Stiles was balancing (screw you, Jackson Whittemore, because he was fully capable of being composed and coordinated when necessary) on the rail of the porch, concentrating very hard on floating, feeling light, flying, balloons, feathers, airplanes-

"What are you doing?"

Stiles jumped a little in surprise, wobbling and flailing as he tried to keep his balance.

"Dammit, don't sneak around! We've discussed the sneakyness and the thing where Stiles is _easily_ , repeat: _easily_ startled!" Stiles said, annoyed, heart hammering from the near fall.

Derek raised his eyebrows in return. "I made plenty of noise coming out here. The door slammed, you just didn't notice."

Stiles rolled his eyes. "I guess it depends on your definition of the word "slam," because I heard no such thing."

"So what exactly are you doing?" Derek asked, apparently choosing to ignore Stiles' remark. Stiles looked away from him and gazed intently at the window to Derek's right.

"I'm getting my zen on, you know, doing yoga while balancing on a narrow structure during the sunrise."

"Except it's mid-afternoon and you've just been standing there for ten minutes doing nothing."

Stiles smiled a little at Derek's snark, pleased with the small happy feeling he got, something that had been happening more and more as the days passed, but checked it with a smirk.

"How observant. No dude, I want to know if we have any other ghostly perks. Y'know, like floating around."

"So you're going to jump off the railing from the second floor to figure it out," Derek eyed him, but his mouth tilted up at the corners. "Well, let's see how your little experiment flies."

"Oh my _god_ , that was the worst pun, you are the worst, I revoke your speaking privileges, go sit in a corner and think about what you've inflicted on the world."

"Drama queen."

"Zip it," Stiles said, snippy. "And no, I'm not about to walk off the railing and drop 20 feet just so I can bust my ass on the nice concrete below if everything goes pear-shaped. I'm gonna walk out onto the _porch_ and think of airy things, see if I can get my float on."

Derek looked amused, in that slightly-less-frowny way that he had, and Stiles pulled a frown of his own in response. But despite both his expression and, really, himself as a whole, he was enjoying the banter like he had been starting to, and even more was just happy to be genuinely interacting with someone.

"Okay, let's see it."

"Shh," Stiles shushed around his index finger like he would a small child, satisfied when he noticed Derek twitch a little in annoyance. "I need to focus on this."

Derek made the universal "by all means" gesture before stepping back to lean against the wall, arms crossed over his chest and one corner of his mouth lifted into an irritating and unhelpful smirk.

He might as well have a bag of popcorn, a soda, and some Junior Mints for all he'd apparently settled in to watch the show.

Stiles pursed his lips and looked away, then closed his eyes, picturing clouds and whipped cream, jetpacks and hovercrafts, and stepped out carefully, not thinking about a fall but an expectation to meet something solid-

-and fell hard to the ground in a flail, busting his knee and falling wrong on his wrist. He rolled to his side, groaning and cradling his injured arm.

Derek snorted a laugh, once again the opposite of helpful, before walking over to Stiles and offering him a hand up.

"The pain'll go away in a minute, just stop thinking about it or feeling like it's supposed to hurt."

Stiles grimaced up at him, narrowing his eyes at Derek when he noticed that he seemed to be getting the biggest kick out of Stiles falling like an idiot. He held out his good hand and Derek gripped him, helping him up while his knee protested mightily.

"Stop looking so pleased, jerk. You can't tell me you never thought about trying it," Stiles grumped, but an idea struck him. "No, you know what, I bet you tried to walk through a wall and did a vertical face-plant right into it," Stiles said, shaking out his wrist and flexing his knee, taking Derek's advice and trying to ignore the pain. Derek hesitated before reacting, and Stiles knew he had him. "I totally nailed that! You _did_ try it! Oh my god, I wish I had that on camera, I'm going to hold onto that imagery like a sacred holy relic, you have _no idea_ how much my day has just been made."

Derek schooled his features into a smooth mask, but betrayed himself by smacking Stiles on the back of the head as he walked past him.

"It's not that funny."

Stiles smiled after his retreating back, feeling something bubble in the back of his throat before he let out a surprised burst of laughter as he replayed his mental movie of Derek determinedly walking into a wall.

"And that is where you are 100% correct," Stiles said, and Derek paused turned his head back to face Stiles, looking confused. "It's not funny, it's _hilarious_."

"Shut up," Derek bit, continuing his walk down the stairs. Stiles just laughed again, real laughter, following him down to the beach and poking at him verbally the rest of the afternoon.

He was never going to let Derek live that down.

* * *

"Your reflexes are stupid," Stiles said, slamming down his cards as Derek sat and tried to look innocent, failing miserably as smugness radiated off him.

"You're the one who suggested the game," Derek replied, and Stiles wanted to hit him.

"We're playing again."

"You just lost five times in a row."

"Which makes it statistically more probable that I won't lose this time!"

"You do realize that this isn't based on only chance, right? It's also a game of skill," Derek said in a tone that really wasn't necessarily unkind, but it only made Stiles fume more.

"Set it up," he snapped.

"No, you set it up. You lost."

Stiles clenched his jaw, but took a deep breath, exhaling his irritation. When he felt a little less like a spiteful three year old, he picked up the cards and methodically set up the next game of Speed.

Three minutes later Stiles threw up his hands and flung himself back onto the ground from where he'd been sitting cross legged across from Derek.

"I give up. My competitive drive has officially been shot to death."

"Not sorry," Derek said, and Stiles sat up on his elbows to glare at him as he stood up. "Pick up the cards, it's boring beating you so badly. Repeatedly."

Stiles flipped him off, but picked up the cards and put them back in their box. After he'd put the deck back in place, he turned to see Derek flopped on the couch with the book he'd been reading.

"Nuh-uh, if we're doing the reading thing, you aren't getting my couch," Stiles said, stalking towards Derek, determined to make him move.

Derek just raised his stupid eyebrows, then raised his book, blocking his face.

"Oh c'mon man, I just got my ass handed to me at a game where I've owned every single person I've ever played. Cut me a break here."

Derek turned the page.

Okay, so Derek wanted to play the "Aggravate Stiles" game he was so fond of (although Stiles would be a liar if he said he got nothing out of it himself).

But Stiles could play his own version of this game, dubbed "Annoy Derek Until He Caves."

"I'll sit on you," Stiles said, leaning over the arm of the couch, arms crossed. "I'll sit on you and I'll shove my feet in your face." Derek bent one knee, folding his leg up to rest against the back of the couch.

Okay then.

He went and grabbed his own book from the kitchen counter, and then stood over Derek with his back facing toward the couch.

"Last chance, buddy, before you get this all up in your grill."

Derek turned the page again.

Stiles bet he wasn't even reading anymore, just doing everything he could to get a rise out of him. It was kind of a pattern that they'd settled into for the past... However long they'd been doing this whole thing.

Stiles' mind wanted to wander and try to figure out just how long it had been - the "sleep" and lack of remarkable events made it hard to keep up - but he hit the breaks of that thought train and resolutely dropped backward onto Derek.

...Only to get a foot to the back and a hard push forward, sending Stiles ungracefully flying into the coffee table, which slid back with an angry sound as he caught himself.

"Seriously?!" Stiles half-shouted, whirling on Derek, who was laying back, nonchalant, with one leg crossed over a bent knee. "You're such an _ass_!"

He still kept his nose in the fucking book, but Stiles could see him smirking.

Stiles' eyes cut left, and noticed that with both of Derek's legs bent up like they were, there was a spot left where Stiles could easily park it. It wouldn't be as comfortable as laying down, but he wouldn't be _totally_ giving up the couch. But he also knew that Derek probably knew what he was thinking, so instead of walking calmly over to the spot, he did a perfectly graceful twirl-leap into it, plopping down heavily before Derek could do something else assholish like shove his feet under Stiles' butt.

He was just settling in, feet propped up on the coffee table, when Derek shoved his feet into Stiles' lap.

"Oh my _god_ , you are so fucking obnoxious. People call _me_ obnoxious, but obviously they haven't met Derek Hale, King of Obnoxiousness. Get your _feet_ out of my _lap_ , you dick!" When Derek didn't move a hair, Stiles tried shoving him off to no avail. "I will tickle your feet! Don't think I won't!"

Derek dropped his book to his chest, blank-faced but obviously pleased with himself.

"Not ticklish."

Stiles rolled his eyes and made an exaggerated gesture to the heavens. "Of course you're not."

"Go sit somewhere else," Derek said, pulling his book and feet back up. Stiles grabbed one of his ankles and planted his leg firmly back over his lap.

"You may have won the battle, but I haven't lost the war," Stiles stated resolutely, shoving his face in his own book. Derek just snorted.

"Keep telling yourself that."

It took about ten minutes for Stiles to realize the intimacy of the position they were in, like they were old friends or... or boyfriends, or something. At the thought he felt himself blush and sink further into the couch, clutching his book so close to his face his nose was literally almost buried in it. Thankfully, Derek didn't seem to notice Stiles' embarrassment.

Maybe they were getting to be on that level now. Derek wasn't super tactile, though he did do a lot of shoulder touching or gentle pushes, so he wasn't cold, either. Still, this kind of setting for them wasn't exactly typical.

Stiles hadn't felt embarrassed like this in a long time. He wasn't uncomfortable, not really, it was more of an excited embarrassment, like when you're suddenly kissed in public by the person you're crushing on.

Okay, bad analogy. Because he wasn't crushing on Derek. They were ghost-buddies, two dudes stuck together for quite possibly eternity...

But that wasn't right, either.

Stiles pulled his book from his face, started reading, and resolutely did not think about it anymore.

* * *

There was what could be no less than a goddamn hurricane blasting wind and rain against the house, and as he stared out the window, Stiles idly wondered what would happen to him and Derek if the house did end up blowing away. Would they blow away with it? Were they attached more to the property than to the actual house? Questions, questions.

Stiles had woken up a while ago to the power being out and the great deluge going on outside, but hadn't seen Derek around anywhere since before he'd gone to sleep. It was dark out, and the battery-powered analogue clock above the counter told him that it was eight o'clock. He thought briefly that he would have just finished eating dinner by now, if he were still alive, but these days there wasn't a schedule to keep him on track, and time passed in strange waves between sleep, depressive episodes, and time with Derek.

He couldn't put a name to his mood at the moment. He wasn't necessarily feeling the strange weight of emotionlessness, but he wasn't content either. This was some type of in between... And it was times like this that Stiles wished he weren't so hyper aware of everything running through his head.

He felt edgy, restless, but didn't really want to do anything. A boredom that was always hovering in the background was closing in on him the longer he sat alone, and that boredom combined with his weird mood felt somehow threatening, like if his thoughts strayed just the slightest bit off the path he would crash hard. So now he was very carefully focusing on the storm, squinting out into the darkness and catching glimpses of angry waves rushing high up the shore, closer and closer to the house itself.

Moments passed before he huffed in impatience with himself and stood up, stretching with a groan before turning to the window again. He wanted to get rid of this feeling, this itching that was starting to feel worse than the nothingness. He gazed out at the storm again, and felt overcome with the urge to stand out in the chaos and feel it all around him. After all, he was already as dead as someone could get, and he literally couldn't be swept out to sea because of the whole reach-the-boundary-boom-teleportation thing, so... Why not?

He stood in the kitchen and stripped out of everything but his boxers, leaving his clothes in a pile on the floor like the slob he could be when things just picked themselves up after him, and stepped out into the rain.

He was immediately drenched, and he felt like he was being yanked around like a ragdoll as the wind blew around him mercilessly, flinging raindrops hard against his face. It didn't sting so much as it just made it hard to keep his eyes open, but it felt good, too. It gave his body something to fight against and was like his brain was being drenched with the promise of a good scrub down to come.

He stepped out further onto the porch, going to stand at the railing to look down to where the tide was inching up toward the house. He was tempted to go down the stairs and stand at the edge, see how long it would take to come up to his ankles, if the water would rise up to waist-level and try to drag him out into the violent sea.

He closed his eyes as a sudden gust of wind blew rain harshly against his face, neck, and chest, and raised his face toward it, getting the sudden urge to stand with his arms out and let himself be battered by the storm. He was stepping back to maybe do just that when the thought of Titanic and the famous "king of the world" thing stopped him in his tracks, making him wince at the cheesiness of the action. But in the same instant he couldn't give a shit less about what he was going to look like, because he felt free like this; with that, he raised his arms and let his neck and jaw relax.

He saw the lightning crack red from behind his closed eyes, and the thunder rolled immediately, shaking his bones in his skin. He was cold, ne noticed vaguely, but it felt good. There was something about that moment, standing against the cold rain and harsh wind, the sounds of tide crashing and thunder like god growling, that was making him feel clean and powerful.

He didn't know how long he stood like that, but the rain was letting up the tiniest bit before he lowered his arms. He stayed for another moment, and then turned to go back inside when lightning split the sky again, and he glimpsed Derek inside, watching through the window.

Stiles jerked back, startled, and wondered if Derek had been standing there long, if he saw Stiles with his arms out like an idiot. Embarrassment crept up the back of his neck, followed quickly by a flush.

Of course Derek would see him.

Stiles took a breath and walked back into the house, trailing water behind him briefly before it evaporated from him and the ground, leaving everything dry. Derek wasn't by the window anymore, but it was too dark to see very far into the house, so he could be in the living room and Stiles wouldn't be able to see him.

He pulled his clothes back on and stepped into the darkness, calling out, "Derek?"

"In here," Derek said softly, and Stiles followed the voice to the living room area, where he saw Derek's outline curled into a chair that had been turned to face the window. Stiles watched his dark form for a moment, and waited to see if he'd say anything more. When he didn't follow up, Stiles felt his way toward the couch and collapsed down onto it, gazing out the window, too, watching the storm start to subside.

"When I was little I hated storms," Stiles started, hesitating a moment before continuing. "If I woke up to thunder, I'd run to my parents' room and wake them up. They let me get in bed between them, and I'd fall asleep like that, with Mom and Dad both resting a hand on my stomach. I was kind of a wimpy kid."

"That's not wimpy," Derek said in a quiet tone. "Laura and I are only a year apart, and we did the same thing whenever we were scared. Sometimes it was four of us in my parents' bed. Cora used to come sleep with me whenever she was scared, too. My little brothers didn't really get scared though."

"Scott never got scared, either, but he was a good enough guy not to make fun of me when we'd watch a scary movie or my imagination went nuts and I'd make him sleep in the bed with me."

Derek turned his head, and Stiles could practically hear his eyebrow raising. "And exactly how long ago did that stop?"

"Shut up," Stiles said lightly. "I'm a very creative person with a very vivid imagination, and there's nothing wrong with that. I will say that the nightmares weren't a picnic though."

Derek turned back to the window.

"I had nightmares every night for a year after the fire. Laura never said anything, but I know she did, too. I'd wake up to her crying in the middle of the night, and whenever that happened I'd go in her room and we'd just lay there until we fell asleep again."

Stiles was surprised, but simultaneously felt like he shouldn't be. Derek was standoffish and kind of an asshole, but Stiles had seen how much he loved his sister, and it was easy to believe that he'd do something like that.

Stiles wondered for a bit if Derek felt the same pull to comfort other people the way he did his sister, but just felt too awkward to do anything about it. Somehow that didn't seem very far-fetched, either. He thought back briefly to the time he'd exploded at Derek on the beach, right before Laura had made her visit, how Derek had put a hand on his shoulder and told him "people survive, it's what they do," and he realized that that was Derek's version of trying to comfort someone. Sure, he sucked at it, but now Stiles could see the actions for what they were, and could also see where he might even have hurt Derek by shrugging him off.

"I didn't have nightmares after Mom... Just panic attacks. It was like I traded off one for the other," Stiles said, pulling his knees up to rest his chin on them. "But after Dad I had both. It was fucking awful. The nightmares stopped in the last month or so before I bit the dust, but I wouldn't wish that shit on anyone."

"I can think of some people I'd wish it on, but they're dead, so it doesn't really matter. There are some things I'm not a very good person about."

Stiles processed that for a second, and thought about the people who'd set the fire and the guy who'd killed Dad in that fucking car wreck, and realized that some people probably did deserve it.

"Maybe I'm not such a great person either, because now I can definitely think of someone. Though I'd like to call it more of a sense of justice than being a bad person."

Derek laughed a little at that, and Stiles smiled.

"Sense of justice, huh? I like that."

"I'm pretty good at seeing things from alternate perspectives. It was kind of a running joke and major source of irritation for my parents, especially Dad. I used to get around a lot of things by saying that he and I had different definitions of what something meant, and sometimes he'd laugh, though a lot of the time it looked like he wanted to tear my head off."

"That really doesn't surprise me."

Stiles stuck his tongue out at Derek's back. "You didn't see that, but I just stuck my tongue out at you, even though you deserve worse. I'm just too lazy to get up and hit you."

"You're such a kid."

"Have to keep young somehow, can't just turn into a grumpy old fart like you."

Derek turned around and lightning revealed one hell of a stinkeye.

"I'm not _old_ , I'm only 30," Derek paused a moment, "Was only 30."

"I was 24. Just old enough to have to really be a responsible adult. Shitty."

"Cora would be 24," Derek said, turning back to the window. "And I have no problem believing that you put off growing up until you absolutely had to."

"Who says I grew up?" Stiles said, choosing to avoid the topic of Derek's family since the mood had already lightened, and he was feeling kind of done with the heavy stuff for a little while.

"I didn't mean to imply that you had, because you really, really haven't."

"Forever young. I want to be, forever young..."

"Oh my god just-"

"You love it."

"-shut up," Derek said, and Stiles smiled, could feel that Derek was doing his best not to crack a grin either.

"In any case, we won't get any older here, so at least you won't get dumpy and old and gray and erectiley dysfunctional while I'm still lithe and youthful."

Derek let out an exasperated sigh. "You're fucking ridiculous. Six years is not that much of a difference."

"Just keep telling yourself that."

"You're so annoying."

"I keep you on your toes. Gotta make sure your mind doesn't start to go in your old-"

Before Stiles could even see him move Derek was standing in front of him with a hand slapped over Stiles' mouth.

"I'm. Not. Old."

Stiles contemplated licking Derek's palm, but thought better of it. They weren't quite on the level that Stiles felt comfortable doing something like that, so he just nodded his head instead, and Derek took his hand away, settling on the couch next to Stiles. Stiles flopped to the side away from Derek, knees still tucked up, head resting against a pillow as it rained lightly outside. They sat there, quiet, and the sound was soothing in their comfortable silence. Stiles idly wondered if he'd be able to sleep again so soon. He didn't know what time it was, and hadn't been able to figure out how long he could go before he could sleep again. It was still completely dark outside, and it couldn't have been more than an hour or so, depending on how long he'd stayed out in the storm.

When Stiles looked over at Derek, he could tell that his eyes were closed. He looked comfortable sprawled out on the couch with his feet up on the coffee table, and Stiles felt his warmth at his feet. He watched Derek for a long time, and even though he felt a little creepy, the contentment that had settled over him made it so that didn't matter.

There was a rightness about this that he couldn't pin down. The cleansing sensation he'd gotten from standing out in the rain, and the way that the conversation between them seemed so much easier than it had been made Stiles feel more alive than he'd felt even before he died. In reality, that wasn't saying all that much, because he'd mostly felt nothing, but this was a real ease and good that he was feeling, and he was going to take it and hold onto it like it was his only lifeline.

Because in many ways, it was.

He turned back to the window, listened to the gentle fall of rain, and was better.

* * *

The power came back on around eight o'clock in the morning the next day, which was a good thing since it was still cloudy and damp outside, and though it didn't bother him as much as it might have if he were alive, the humidity was almost oppressive. Even the constant ocean breeze wasn't enough to dispel the mugginess.

Derek had still been knocked out on the couch when Stiles had woken up with his legs stretched over Derek's lap (and that could be a thing if it kept happening, which Stiles found he was okay with). He'd ventured outside to check out the storm damage, but there hadn't been much other than a bunch of seaweed from where the tide had risen high.

Derek had woken up a while later and gone outside himself, but, like Stiles, didn't stay out long.

"It's disgusting out there," Derek complained, shutting the door behind him.

"No joke. I wanted to go hang on the beach today too, since hurricane Brutus lasted all yesterday."

Derek rolled his eyes. "You were asleep all day yesterday, there wasn't time for you to want to go to the beach. And you do realize that we're on the _west_ coast?"

"Just because they're rare doesn't mean there can't be hurricanes out here. You never know with global warming."

Derek just stared at him blankly for a moment.

"Idiot."

"Mmm," Stiles hummed at him.

Derek walked over to where Stiles was perched on the couch with his book ( _The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon_... Thank god he couldn't get lost in a forest anymore) and sat heavily on the couch. He looked more frowny than usual, uncomfortable, as if he had something he wanted to say but was doing his best to keep his mouth shut. Stiles eyed him for a moment before marking his place in his book and turning entirely to face Derek.

"Why do you look like you're about to vomit?"

Derek glared at him from the corner of his eye. "Shut up."

"Not until you tell me what's got you parked in the center of frown-town," Stiles said, and began tapping his fingers on the back of the couch.

"Would you quit that? It's driving me nuts," Derek grit after a few moments, glancing pointedly at where Stiles was drumming his fingers. Stiles stopped and squinted his eyes at Derek, irritated.

"Stop dodging the question, your assholery is just making you more suspicious."

"I don't-" Derek started, but the words seemed to get caught in his throat, and he clicked his mouth shut. Stiles waited, trying to be patient while Derek worked through whatever feelings he was trying to squeeze out through his emotional constipation. Derek heaved a sigh, and his brows furrowed together even more. Stiles toyed with the idea of teasing Derek about unibrows and frowns before dismissing it as inappropriate for the current conversation. "I don't know what's... wrong. With me. Right now."

"What do you mean?" Stiles asked, needing Derek to give him something more to work with.

Derek sighed. "I don't know how to do this. This is what people do, right? Talk about their... feelings." Derek didn't grimace as he said the word, but Stiles definitely felt the awkward vibes radiating off him.

Stiles turned his eyes away from Derek to help him feel less put on the spot, and settled back into the couch.

"Therapists will tell you it's important to talk about your feelings, even if it makes you uncomfortable at first. They told me it's like ripping off a bandaid, but it was more like opening a floodgate, at least for me. But I think for some people it's more like... An archaeological dig. Very careful excavation and slow as fuck progress for digging up some huge monster thing from the past, you know?"

Derek huffed a laugh, and Stiles smiled a little.

"I hate to admit it, but that was a good metaphor."

"Technically it's a simile."

"This is why I can't compliment you."

Stiles actually felt himself blush a little, and sank into the couch a bit further. "I'm not very good at taking compliments."

"Neither am I," Derek said offhandedly, and Stiles saw two options: abandon the heavy conversation Derek had sat down to have in favor of lighthearted banter, or try to pry some words out of Derek's metaphorical cold, dead hands.

Stiles was honestly in the "ignore it" camp, but he knew that wasn't necessarily what was good for Derek, and not everything was all about Stiles all the time. Stiles was important, but Stiles' world had to include more than just himself.

"So what bones are we dusting off right now?"

Derek's frown was immediately back in place, and he leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees and stare down at his hands.

"I think..." Derek started, and Stiles had a feeling this was going to be like trying to crank a car that would turn over but had trouble with the starter. "Last night, when I told you about," Derek made a hand gesture, as if to encompass whatever it was he was talking about. Stiles hazarded a guess that he meant his family. "I was fine, but now I feel shitty. I don't want to feel like that after I talk or think about them. It's not fair to them to make it all... Fucked up, like that."

"I get it," Stiles said, after a second. "I mean, loss hurts. It's painful. It sucks. However you wanna spin it, it's hard to deal with, and people handle it and experience it in different ways. Like me, I shut down, stop feeling anything at all. It's like my brain knows I can't deal, so it takes away the ability to feel the shitty feelings. Unfortunately it takes the good feelings too, so that's not exactly a good way to cope.

"I think you kinda shut down too, maybe? In a different way. You push it all into a filing cabinet that's already exploding full, and I think one day the whole thing is just gonna come apart and all your papers and important documents will just be one big mess," Stiles cleared his throat. "In conclusion, I think it'll get less painful the more you talk about them. Gradually. Slowly. I'm talking, like, centimeters a week."

"At the risk of sounding like a brat, that fucking sucks," Derek said, clenching and unclenching his hands, but not really exuding an angry aura. Maybe frustrated, but not angry.

"Yeah," Stiles agreed. "It really does."

"Is it still hard for you?" Derek asked softly, and Stiles blinked and glanced at him briefly.

"Yeah, most of the time. It's easier now than it was."

"I've talked more about this stuff in the last two weeks or... However the hell long it's been, in longer than I can remember. Even with Laura."

"But that's a good thing, right?" Stiles said, after a moment's hesitation.

Derek pushed off his knees and fell back against the couch. "I don't know."

Stiles thought for a moment, then grimaced a little at what he was about to say.

"Something I heard about four million times in therapy was that 'remembering is a part of living, and ruminating is a part of self destruction.' Or something like that. Basically, Dr. Hirt was telling me to, like... Surface the memories, but not make them so deep I start drowning. You have to remember shit to get past it or to enjoy the good stuff, but memories can also drag you under if you're not careful. It's a balancing act. In fact _,_ _life_ is one big goddamn balancing act," Stiles paused for a moment. "Well, death apparently is too."

Derek exhaled heavily through his nose. "I did not sign up for this shit."

Stiles half-chuckled, "I don't think anybody does."

* * *

The next day was bad for Stiles. He felt like he was in a daze after he woke up, and lay staring at the sloping ceiling of the attic bedroom for what he knew was way too long.

He exhaled and rolled over, catching sight of the clock on the bedside table. 2:00 PM. He'd been in the bed for almost 13 hours. He scrubbed his hand down his face and sighed, opening his eyes to stare at the wall.

He didn't feel tired. He just... didn't feel anything.

 _(You can, though.)_

He didn't want to move. He didn't want to go find Derek. He didn't want to sit on the beach. He didn't want to read or play cards or board games or talk. He just wanted to lay there and pretend he didn't exist for a while.

Thoughts of the times he'd been this way before, when he'd been _this bad_ started up in his head, but he pushed them down into the fog of his mind. He didn't pay attention to the ghost of Scott's concerned face, or Lydia's exasperated voice, calling him out on letting his life sink into a shithole and not even trying to crawl out of it. It had been a comfort to Stiles to know that Allison had never seen him that way, even though the thought of her tended to make things worse.

He pushed away thoughts of the disappointment he imagined his father would have felt, how he'd be upset at seeing Stiles at his worst, and the even worse thoughts of Mom crying over him.

But most of all he shut down thoughts of how they all loved him anyway.

 _(You don't have to shut down.)_

That was the real kicker. He would probably never see any of them ever again, trapped here as he was, and dead as his parents were. That was a thought he'd had more than a few times since he died, and it was an unhappy one that alternately upset him or made him feel like he should be upset, depending on the day.

With his mood, with the depression, there were good times and bad times, after therapy and after he died, and right now was most definitely one of the bad times - probably the worst he'd been since he'd died.

 _(It's not always like this.)_

He couldn't. He didn't want to feel this way, but didn't know if it would honestly be better to feel all the guilt and sadness that would come with raising the heavy curtain drawn over his emotions.

He rolled back onto his back and closed his eyes, because he did know what he wanted. He wanted not to be this zombie anymore, wanted to feel and be real. He'd been getting closer to that, especially the last - two weeks? - he'd spent with Derek. They'd been really good for each other, and Stiles had been happy, to an extent, had really laughed a few times, had wanted to be around Derek, to just be in his presence, almost the whole time.

Now, though... Now he just wanted to be alone. He didn't want to talk to Derek, because he was afraid Derek might expect something of him now that they'd spent time together. He didn't want to have to put up a front, to force banter, to fake smiles and laughs and anything else that came with their interaction. He wanted what he had with Derek to remain the almost sacred thing they had built. That was all he could think.

 _(You know this isn't a setback. This is just a bad day.)_

He was so lost in thought that he didn't notice Derek coming into the room until he heard his name called. He grimaced and threw his arm over his eyes.

"Go away. Today is not a good day."

It was silent for a moment, but just as Stiles went to move his arm to check if Derek was there, he got a response.

"I can see that," he said slowly, carefully. It took a moment for him to continue, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. There's nothing."

"It's not nothing. You've been up here for a long time, _doing_ nothing."

Stiles frowned and rolled on his side to face away from Derek.

"Like I said: _nothing_. I've been doing nothing, nothing is all I'm doing."

"You're not making sense."

"Just go away. I want to be alone."

There was another long pause, but Stiles could feel Derek's eyes on him, and knew that he hadn't left.

"I don't think you should be alone," he said, slow and forced, and Stiles felt traces of guilt, because here was Derek trying, and Stiles was being an ungrateful shit.

Stiles finally rolled to face Derek, searching for the words to explain. He looked over Derek's shoulder for a moment before finally meeting his eyes, though it was only for a small fraction of time.

 _(Say it. He'll get it.)_

"I can't do anything," Stiles started. "I can't... feel anything. Fuck, why is that so hard to admit?"

"And you think it's best for you to be alone while you can't feel or do anything."

Stiles clenched his jaw, and began to feel annoyed, which was the primary thing he _could_ feel whenever he was like this.

"I can feel annoyed. I'm _getting_ annoyed," he said, and when he looked at Derek's face again he regretted it, because Derek looked earnest and a little vulnerable in the eyes if he looked hard enough. Fuck, Stiles was no good to anyone like this. He sighed heavily, managing to finally sit up on the bed. "Look, I'm sorry. I'm an asshole when I'm like this. I hate being this way, and I hate people seeing me this way, but more than that, I hate having to fake it for people so they don't know. So I just want to be alone."

Derek walked toward the bed and sat down on the edge, facing away from Stiles.

"You don't have to fake it with me. I don't - I..." Derek swallowed, and Stiles could see him working against himself to say something. Stiles knew he was aboard the rickety ride of Derek's Comfort Train, and tried to be patient. "I don't want you to think you have to be alone."

 _(You really don't have to be.)_

Stiles was still for a moment, a little shocked at how exactly Derek's words struck in a place buried deeply within him. He pulled his legs up until he could cross them and stare at his hands as they picked at them hem of his pajama pants.

"Thanks," he said softly. "It's just not that easy."

"Nothing's easy," Derek offered. "You know that."

Stiles gave a dry laugh. "Don't I just."

"Come on. You need to get out of this room."

Stiles watched Derek stand up, and flopped himself back onto the bed. "I literally can't move, dude," he looked for some way to make Derek understand. "It took everything I had just to sit up. It's taking all my reserves to talk. I can't do it."

 _(Don't worry about "can't.")_

Stiles felt Derek grab both his arms and pull him into a sitting position, Stiles not total dead weight, but almost.

"What the hell are you doing?" Stiles asked irritably as Derek yanked him to the edge of the bed. Still, he couldn't find it in himself to be upset, even when Derek hauled him up over his shoulders in a fireman's carry. "Oh my god, put me down, this is fucking ridiculous," Stiles mumbled, even as he buried his face into Derek's shoulder.

"No. You're getting out of this goddamn room, and you had your chance to do it yourself. This is what you get."

"I hate you."

"No, you don't."

"Mphrmphh."

They didn't say anything else as Derek carried him down the stairs, out the door, down more stairs, and out to the beach where two chairs were already nicely set up for them. He dropped Stiles directly into one of the chairs, rough enough that Stiles let out a little grunt. Stiles squinted up at him through the sun, managing a half glare before dropping his gaze down to the glittering ocean. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Derek strip out of his shirt and sit gracefully in the other chair.

"There. Enjoy the sun."

Stiles snorted and leaned his head back. The sun was hot on his face, but it did feel good.

He rolled his head to look at Derek again, and thought to himself that he'd been wrong. Derek didn't expect shit from him. He'd known that. He still knew it. It was just easier to believe that it would be hard to be around anyone at all so that he would have more reasons to sit by himself and wallow as he fell into the void.

 _(You can accept help; it's okay.)_

Stiles shifted again and focused on the light playing on the ocean, and felt the smallest bit of darkness ease away.

* * *

The next day it rained again, though it wasn't a big storm like the last. Mood wise, it was an easier day for Stiles, and he felt motivated enough to play a game Derek suggested. Derek called it "ghost," which made zero sense, but anyway.

"P," Derek started.

"O."

"I."

"S."

"E."

"Oh my god, you ruin everything," Stiles griped while Derek smirked back at him. "Poison. _Poison_. Why can't you for once just spell something that I'm trying to spell."

"It's still not my fault that my vocabulary is better than yours."

Stiles nearly flipped him off, but contained himself. "Start again."

"D."

"I."

"C."

"K!" Stiles shouted, the feeling of victory making him smile. Derek just smirked back at him.

"E."

Stiles blinked, his mind searching, and found the letter that he knew Derek was looking for. He desperately went through words in his head, trying to find _something_ that would extend the word that wasn't the "N" Derek wanted.

Nada.

"Ugh, you suck. N."

"S. For success."

Stiles glared hard at him.

"The worst, the absolute worst, that is what you are," he complained loudly.

"Just admit that I'm smarter than you and it'll be easier for you to lose."

"Never. Never, ever, ever getting back to -"

"Don't you even -"

"- gether, we are never, ever, ever getting back together -"

"Wait, Stiles, be quiet," Derek said, and Stiles stopped his lovely singing at the serious look on Derek's face. "There's someone coming up the driveway."

They both stood quickly, rushing over to the window at the back of the living area.

A grey, sleek looking van was pulling up. Dubiously, Stiles asked, "Laura?"

Derek shook his head. "Not unless she's gotten a new car and spawned a husband and some kids."

Stiles looked more closely, and saw the silhouettes of four people in the van.

The van pulled up under the house into the garage, and Stiles looked over at Derek.

"Renters?"

Derek nodded, and they made a silent agreement to head to the kitchen to wait for the people to come into the house.

The doors to the van slammed shut, and after a few moments, a middle-aged woman was unlocking the front door and hauling in a giant suitcase with a duffle on her shoulder.

"Oh, thank god we're finally here," she mumbled, parking the suitcase and duffles next to the door.

A second later and a girl, no older than maybe 14, pushed her way inside and roughly threw her own bags to the floor.

"Of course it's raining, what a fantastic start to our fun family vacation!" the girl half-shouted, sarcasm rolling off her in waves.

The woman shot the girl a look. "Tyler, go help your dad with the coolers."

The girl - Tyler, apparently - gave an exaggerated eye roll and stomped out the door.

"Move, loser," Tyler's voice carried from outside, followed by a "Hey!" from another voice.

"Be nice to your brother!" the mom shouted, and another kid, maybe ten years old, came in with more bags.

"What is her deal?" the boy asked, and the mom shook her head.

"Hormones," she said. "We'll pick rooms after Tyler and Dad get back upstairs and we've unpacked the coolers."

"I still don't know what "hormones" even means," the boy grumbled, and went to sit on the couch in the living room.

"We'll have that talk in about two years, sweetie, but not now."

The kid rolled his eyes and pulled a 3DS from his pocket, which Stiles eyed enviously.

"I'd kill for one of those right now," Stiles said as the father and Tyler hauled one cooler up the stairs.

"I wasn't huge into a lot of video games, but I did like some stuff. It's not the main thing I miss, but I wouldn't mind having something around."

"Not a big gamer, huh?" Stiles said, watching the boy carefully place the DS on the table before standing up to help in the kitchen while Tyler slammed her way back outside. Her parents exchanged a look before her dad followed her out.

"I liked Skyrim and adventure games like that; wasn't a fan of the shooting crap. Too noisy."

Stiles hummed, and the boy started talking again. "Couldn't we just have left her at home? That's what she wanted, anyway. Steve and Martha could have stayed with her."

"We've been over this, Blake. We're here to have a family vacation, and that includes _all_ of our family."

"But she sucks! She's mean and complains about everything -"

"I can hear you, you brat," Tyler growled from the doorway where she and her father were bringing in the second cooler. "I don't want to be here any more than you want me here."

"One more word out of your mouth and you lose your phone for tomorrow," her father snapped. Tyler pursed her lips and glared, but said nothing.

The mom sighed, looking tired. "Let's just put everything away, okay? Then we'll pick rooms."

The boy smiled and Tyler stayed silent, and they worked quietly in the kitchen.

"Want to head outside?" Derek asked. Stiles glanced outside, and the rain wasn't nearly as bad as Tyler would have led them to believe. So he nodded, and they slipped out the front door without anyone noticing.

"Well, this is gonna be loads of fun," Stiles said. "How long do renters usually stay?"

"Usually between three days and a week," Derek replied. "They look kind of like they're in it for the long haul."

"Yeah," Stiles agreed, and they walked toward the beach in silence for a minute. "They're kind of a mess."

"They've got a teenager."

"She was kind of a brat though."

Derek didn't say anything until they were standing at the edge of the water.

"Laura was exactly like that at that age, and you can't tell me you weren't a little shit as a teenager, either. We're all little shits when we're teenagers. Hormones."

"Hormones," Stiles agreed, then thought it over. "I guess you're right. It's summer vacation and she's away from her friends with her annoying little brother and evil parents who take away all the fun."

"Exactly."

A comfortable silence came over them, and they stood with the wind ruffling their hair, the rain misting around them, and the ocean barely at their toes. Derek surprised him a few minutes later by breaking it.

"You never realize until they're gone," he murmured, so softly that Stiles almost missed it.

"No," Stiles said, focusing on the grey horizon. "You don't."

It was quiet for another long moment.

"Laura and I had pretty much the same dynamic that those kids have. She was all about her friends, and mostly just felt annoyed by our family. She loved me, and I loved her, but she and I used to get _into it_ sometimes. I fought with her more than I fought with anyone else in my family. We even used to smack each other until I turned 11 and Mom threatened to ground us for a week whenever fights got that bad."

"Grounding doesn't sound so bad."

Derek snorted. "Mom's version of grounding was leaving you with no source of entertainment whatsoever. No games, no books, no TV, internet strictly for school - she and Dad put on parental blocks for websites."

Stiles whistled. "Damn, that's intense. Dad's version of grounding was no friends, straight home after school or practice or whatever, and no games. I got some internet and TV, but I'd have to be in bed by some stupid time... 9:00 PM. He kept that time 'til I was 16 - which, ridiculous, right? - when he changed it to 10:00. But that's not as bad as having nothing to do."

Derek shrugged. "We had board games. We'd have have to play with each other because we weren't allowed to play with anyone else. I think it was supposed to force us to get along if we didn't want to go crazy with boredom. Wednesdays - family game nights - were the highlight of the week when you were grounded."

"Oh, family game night... So that explains the massive closet full of games."

"We lost a lot of them after the fire. Laura bought all the ones she could remember, but there were only two of us. Not many we could play."

Stiles hesitated; he knew this was a really sensitive topic for Derek, but he also wanted to keep him talking, so he asked, "How big was your family?"

"There were seven of us, but my little brothers would usually play with someone older as a team if the game needed fewer people or was too complicated."

Derek's reply wasn't even stuttered; he seemed to be talking about all of this relatively easily, though Stiles could hear some strain in his voice. Still, Stiles would keep prodding as long as Derek seemed stable enough.

"Who were the teams?"

It took a moment, but Derek did respond. "Will usually played with me, and Nathan with Mom or Laura. Cora was obsessed with independence and never played with anyone."

"Sounds like fun," Stiles said, hearing the slight tremor in Derek's voice and opting to switch gears to himself. It wasn't like it was easy for him to talk about this stuff either, but he'd had more practice than Derek, and it felt wrong to try to jump onto a whole different topic. Stiles probably needed to talk, too, if he were honest with himself (something he wasn't all that great with, but hey, he was working on it). He looked up at the grey sky, concentrated on the feeling of the tiny rain drops on his face. "Before Mom died, we had what we just called 'outside day.' We'd go hiking in the preserve, or have a picnic, or both. It wasn't always once a week because of weather and Dad's work, but we went when we could. My favorites were always the summer outside days because we'd go to one of the swimming holes in the preserve, or the big lake.

"After Mom died, Dad and I would go on camping trips, and had movie nights either at the theater or renting something before the days of Netflix. We didn't have any of the old kind of outside days, and Scott came a lot, but we kept those camping trips up until he died. We couldn't go all that often because of school and his job, but I always looked forward to them."

Stiles stopped there, feeling his own voice start to waver this time.

"We lived out in the woods," Derek offered. "Twenty minutes outside of town."

Stiles hummed in acknowledgement, then stepped forward until his feet were covered by the water, his pajama pants getting soaked up to the ankle. Neither of them said anything for a long time, and the rain let up completely. Stiles absently thought that it would be symbolic if the clouds parted and the sun came bursting forth, but that didn't happen, and he didn't really feel like it needed to, at this point.

He swirled his right foot in the water a little, the waves starting to bury his left ankle, and suddenly his energy seemed to just drop out of him, and he plopped down, right there in the water, pants and all. He exhaled heavily and then flopped backward, the water not rising high enough to meet his ears, and just lay there for a minute.

"So what do we do while they're here?"

"There's not a lot we can do while anyone is awake."

Stiles gave a put-upon sigh, sitting up. "So we just have to entertain ourselves with patty cake or something until night rolls around?"

"Or something," Derek answered with a shrug. "The lights won't work at night though."

"Seriously?" Stiles said, and Derek just arched an eyebrow at him. "I'm not excited about this part of the haunting thing."

Derek didn't say anything else, and silence settled in again, Stiles sitting in the waves and Derek standing next to him for a while until finally sitting down as well, but out of the water. By the time the tide had fully receded, leaving Stiles sitting in a soaked, sandy mess, it was completely dark out. The sky was still covered by clouds, the moon and stars hidden. The house was illuminated behind them, and Stiles guessed that it was probably around seven or so; the family would be awake for hours still.

"I'm gonna go see what room was left free," Derek said suddenly, and Stiles nodded, the mess of sand and water disappearing from his person.

"I'll come with."

It turned out Stiles' attic room was left open (which was weird, because Stiles thought it was the best room in the house) and the three downstairs bedrooms had been taken up instead. The mom was making dinner with a pouting Tyler, while the Dad and Blake played a card game at the table.

"I'm going to sleep," Derek said.

"Same, I guess. This isn't exactly prime time TV."

Stiles followed Derek up the stairs, and they both paused at the bed, realizing the problem; there was just one. Stiles felt a kick of anxiety and excitement (aka, kind of freaking out), thinking of the warmth Derek inspired in him and how it might one day become _hot -_ whatever the hell that meant, thank you brain - and the fact that he knew those feelings might be possible was something that he hadn't been acknowledging, because they were already happening, and also, hello, he needed his general emotions to have some kind of stability first - right? - and anyway, how the fuck would _that_ work, they were both dead, and what was going on in Stiles' head right now, holy shit.

There were things on the verge of acknowledgement in him, standing on a cliff waiting to fall into his conscious self, things like how much more he'd been feeling, how he'd laughed, how the time he spent with Derek made him… Made him so many things, he couldn't even add it all up.

Scenes played through his head: he and Derek pushing each other's buttons; the talks about family and past and feelings that never lasted long but were enough to help; the times that Stiles had felt amused with their banter and Derek's grumpiness and dry humor.

He thought about all of his therapy, how he'd recounted it to Derek and had it running through his own head, especially when he didn't want it to, when he wanted to wallow. There was a voice in his thoughts that had joined his therapist's and, these days, Derek's, in reminding him of what could be and repeating things to believe in. And it wasn't the shaming voice - the one that told him he was a piece of shit for letting his life go to hell, that he was worthless for not being able to move or feel; it was something _good_.

All of that, all of the intensity of everything that he knew could happen with Derek, of everything that could take him back to normal-Stiles, back to emotion and the desire to live and accomplish - it was all on the tip of his mind, like a dream he just couldn't quite remember.

Stiles couldn't even feel awkward as they stood there, too wrapped up in his Derek-feelings and somehow simultaneously avoiding and forcing himself to experience some serious self-revelations. He saw Derek shift next to him, and Stiles opened his mouth to say something, but found that his head was still spinning too much to possibly get a word out.

"What side of the bed do you sleep on?" Derek asked, and Stiles harshly let out a breath he hadn't even known he was holding, surprised out of his internal crisis. Derek glanced over at him, raising an eyebrow. "You okay?"

Well, at least one of them was keeping a cool head about this.

"Y-yeah, no, I'm fine," Stiles stuttered, voice trembling. "Um, I like being closer to the door. If… uh. If that's cool."

(Stiles knew he was acting like a 12 year old, but he was getting hit from several emotional directions at once, and almost felt like he might cry.)

"... Okay."

Stiles was grateful Derek didn't press, and turned his gaze away when Derek stripped off his henley, which was fucking ridiculous considering how often he graced the public (which now consisted of just Stiles, but hey) with his half-nudity. Derek shucked his pants, too, and made his way to the bed, collapsing on the left side. Thankfully, he didn't say anything when it took Stiles a little too long to venture over himself, and after a moment, he was able to calm down enough to lie down without feeling overwhelmed.

When he'd finally settled on his side, one arm tucked under the pillow, Stiles was relatively at peace. Derek was a warm weight next to him, just a few inches from his back, and with a sense of excited comfort, Stiles thought about phasing into sleep and was out in the next moment.

* * *

Stiles woke up to mid-morning and no Derek, which was sort of a relief. He lay on his back, blinking up at the ceiling, and turning over the previous night's thoughts for a moment before deciding to set aside any and all Derek Related Feelings, and stay on the path he'd been on before his little emotional - god, _what_ \- episode.

He was glad for what had happened, though. It was all still just at his fingertips, not quite able to grasp, but he was touching on reality again. There were more rays of sun seeping through the fog of nothingness, yadda yadda, insert all those similes and metaphors he'd gotten so good at in his internal monologue.

He rolled his head to face the window, and lamented a little the inability to wake up slowly or turn over and snuggle back to sleep, before getting out of the bed completely with a stretch. Downstairs he found the girl - Tyler - sitting at the dining table in a bathing suit, furiously texting someone or multiple someones, who knew.

He looked out the window and saw someone floating out in the ocean, and the mom and dad sitting in two of four beach chairs that had been set up. He didn't see any sign of Derek though, and was curious about where he'd gone, when a thought struck him.

It was a possibility that he or Derek could just up and disappear at any time. They didn't know what was keeping them tied to the house, and what if one day one of them tripped the switch to move on to heaven or hell or reincarnate as a llama?

Stiles felt a highly unpleasant heaviness in his gut at the thought of being trapped here without Derek. He really would go crazy with no one around who could actually see and talk to him, and that wasn't even touching on how he'd feel about losing Derek himself.

With some slight alarm that he was internally trying to talk himself down from, Stiles forced himself to calmly walk around the rest of the house, and let out a massive sigh of relief when he caught sight of Derek in the front yard area.

Derek was examining the plants, glaring at what were probably weeds poking around in the flower beds as if they would disintegrate if he stared long enough.

Stiles smiled a little, wondering if he should leave Derek up to his business with the garden and the rest of the yard, or if it would be okay to bug him. He didn't want to bust in on Derek if he was having some private time, but he was also bored. He wound up compromising, choosing to watch Derek check over more of the flowers and other plants before making his way outside.

He hadn't really paid that much attention to the front yard other than when he first drove up, not even on the later trip to the grocery store; he'd spent more time on the porch by the ocean or on the couch in the living room than anywhere else. But looking around as he made his way toward Derek, he realized just how many different things were growing in the carefully constructed beds. There were three large, somewhat twisted looking trees, and several flower beds and well kempt bushes.

"Did you do all this?" Stiles asked by way of greeting. Derek startled a little where he was squatting to look at plants, before dropping his head and sighing heavily.

"Now who's creeping around?"

"Oh, please. Like this one time I surprise you matters when you've pulled creeper on me a thousand times," Derek shook his head, still not looking at Stiles, but Stiles didn't miss his minute smile. "So, did you?"

"Most of it, yeah," Derek said, standing up. "The trees were already here, and I had some help with the plotting part of the landscaping, but I chose the plants and took care of them, for the most part. There was a gardener I'd call when I needed some help, but it's hard to trust someone else with this."

"I bet it is," Stiles agreed. He walked forward and knelt down next to a pretty set of white-pink flowers that seemed to blossom upside down. He reached out and stroked the petal gently.

"Fairy lanterns," Derek said. "Mom really loved them."

"So who takes care of them now? Can you do anything for them, or does it not work anymore like everything else?"

"Laura kept Ben on, the guy who'd help me out when I couldn't be here. I've… I tried to do some basic things. Sometimes it works. Sometimes not. Never when there's people though."

"It's really beautiful out here."

Derek shrugged, but Stiles didn't miss the way he flushed a little, despite keeping a steady voice. "It's the right time of year. Most things are in bloom."

Stiles hummed, standing, and then made his way to a yellow flower in a sandy plot.

"Beach primrose," Derek said, when Stiles touched one of the blossoms. And, "Flowering Currant," when Stiles continued on to another plant.

They passed some time like that, Stiles going to different plants and occasionally asking questions, and Derek naming them and answering.

Even though Stiles knew that Derek's main hobby was gardening, he was still surprised at how much Derek knew; he was like a fucking encyclopedia of plants. Everybody had things they nerded out over, but Stiles had never known someone so into botany.

"Where'd you learn all this?" he asked, fingers stroking the soft underbelly of a flower.

"I picked up stuff from different places. Mom and Dad did some gardening as a hobby, Mom more than Dad. She used to rope me into helping her out when I was little, when Dad had a job that kept him late. It got to be something I liked, especially going to the nurseries and picking out new plants," Derek paused, cleared his throat. Stiles stayed quiet, knowing this was more of that raw territory in Derek's head. "I got a job at the nursery doing grunt work when I was in high school, but quit after - after the fire. We moved, and when I went to college I took some classes, ended up majoring in botany even though the 'how it works' wasn't as interesting to me."

Derek stopped again, and though Stiles had a feeling he wanted to say more, the silence kept stretching. After a moment, he realized he could actually _see_ Derek withdrawing back into his head, and it didn't exactly look like he was in happy land in there, if his stony expression was anything to go by.

"But you like watching things grow," Stiles prompted, but all he got from Derek was a nod. He swallowed heavily, and ventured, "You've grown some really beautiful things. Out here, it's... It's calm. In fact, it reminds me of the 'garden of tranquility' that my relaxation tape thing told me to picture."

That chipped away some of Derek's hard expression, and his mouth relaxed into what was almost a smile.

"Thanks," Derek said, soft but genuine. Stiles could hear everything Derek wasn't saying in that one word.

"You're welcome."

Derek turned to face Stiles, and looked like he had something else he wanted to say, but before he could even open his mouth, the front door slammed and Tyler came storming out and stomped her way down the stairs, furious tears streaming down her face and her father hot on her heels.

"Tyler Ashton Lee, you quit this temper tantrum and get back here right now! You're thirteen, not three!"

Tyler whirled on her father. "I'll have a damn temper tantrum if I want! You knew this place would make me miserable, and you made me come here anyway, and if _that_ wasn't bad enough, you're punishing me for no reason!"

The dad visibly took a breath, but when he exhaled, it was more frustration than outright anger. "Honey, I'm not trying to punish you, but we came here to spend time together. You've been sitting in the house all day, and-"

"You know I can't see my phone in the sun, but you're dragging me out there, away from my friends! I'm… I'm gonna get left behind!" With that, she crumpled to the ground in a squat, hugging her knees tightly to her chest. At the door, her little brother - Blake? - stepped out carefully, clutching something in his hand. He spoke softly to his dad first, who nodded and rested a hand on his head before walking back into the house.

Blake went and sat down next to Tyler, who was slowly calming down. He tapped her knee and handed over what he'd been holding, which turned out to be a mini-pack of tissues. She took them and sat back next to him, wiping her face and blowing her nose. They were quiet for a little while.

"Your friends aren't gonna forget about you," Blake said softly. Tyler sniffed and wiped at another stray tear.

"I just don't wanna miss anything. You don't… you don't get it. You're not old enough to get it."

Blake shrugged. "I dunno why you always treat me like I'm two. I miss my friends, but this can be fun too. We used to have fun, anyway."

"We did, I guess," Tyler said, starting to pick at the grass. "But it's not fair, I…"

"I think we should head somewhere else," Stiles said.

"Yeah," Derek agreed, sounding a little strangled. Stiles nudged him, and they made their way to the bed-swing on the back porch. There was a tension around Derek, and Stiles, never one for this kind of tense silence, broke it.

"I was never friend-crazy like that. Mostly it was just me and Scott and my obsessive crush on Lydia until high school," he started, picking absently at the hem of his shirt. "We expanded our tiny social circle a little in ninth grade, when Scott and Isaac got partnered for a biology project, then Erica transferred in 11th grade, and Isaac got a crush that dragged her in, too. It didn't last long because they just didn't click like that - you know, better off as friends.

"She and this senior, Boyd, ended up hooking up, so he was around, too. Disgustingly enough, they're still together. Getting married, maybe? I kind of…" Stiles paused, took a breath, tried to move past the upwelling of shame. "Um, I dropped off the face of the planet awhile ago, so.

"Anyway, senior year I got put in a group project with Lydia, the girl of my dreams, and these two other people that turned out to be completely useless. When _I_ didn't turn out to be completely useless, she worked me to death, and was totally mean about it. But we worked really well together, even though my burning crush was getting the metaphorical fire hose.

"Then one day her douchebag boyfriend that she ended up marrying - what the fuck - said some really shitty things to her. When she came over to work on the project, she looked like a ghost or something… It was really bad. Like, this girl never left the house without makeup and there she was with mascara all over her face and blotchy cheeks. When I asked about it, she snapped at me, then started crying, and then she was spilling her guts to me. She was so embarrassed, but let me tell you, I handled that shit like a champ, and ever since we've had this snarky brains-bros friendship going, and… Yeah."

Stiles stopped, swallowed, glanced over at Derek, who was watching him with an unreadable expression. He turned away after a moment, looked out to the ocean.

"I was popular in high school, but I was a lot different back then," Derek said. "Then I just ended up shutting everybody out, and by the time we moved it was like my friends were all strangers. I hated the way they looked at me, and I didn't trust anybody enough to really ever have friends after that. There were people Laura hung out with that would come over, people I had classes with. But I didn't want to be around anybody. I just… couldn't."

They sat in the quiet for a moment, and Stiles spotted Tyler and Blake walking out to the beach toward their parents.

"After Dad died, I couldn't do people, either. I drove Scott away hardcore, and I was an asshole to everybody," Stiles paused, huffing a small laugh. "Lydia was the one who tried to cut through my bullshit, because she knew exactly what I was doing. She could see how ashamed I was and she knew I was just... giving up on life, and trying to get people to quit caring about me. Scott was awesome, and even though his patience would blow out, he always came back. Lydia was the one who shut it all down though. I said some fucked up shit to her, and she snapped at me, but then was quiet and just told me that she couldn't help me if I didn't want to help myself. After that, there wasn't anyone anymore. Everyone left me alone, just like I'd wanted," Stiles stopped, pulled his knees up to his chest and rested his chin there. "I knew I had a choice. I remember trying to figure out the best way to die, and then I decided that I couldn't do it. I didn't have anything left, but I couldn't bring myself to just end it, even though I wanted to. I dunno. And long brutal story of therapy short, I ended up stuck here with Scowly McFrownface."

"Scowly McFrownface? Really?" Derek said, eyebrow raised in judgey judgement, but underlined with an amused smile. Stiles was glad, because even though he tried to keep it light, it was still a heavy fucking story. He shrugged, and Derek looked out at the beach. "Do you ever get annoyed that you're stuck here? That you can't go anywhere?"

Stiles thought for a moment, but it wasn't a hard question to answer. A little embarrassing though, maybe, but then this was Derek, who was probably the biggest hermit ever.

"Honestly, I didn't go anywhere for like a month before I started therapy, and before that I only left when Scott would drag me out to get groceries and crank the Jeep. It was actually part of the therapy to get the fuck out of the house more than the once a week it took me to go to therapy itself. I pretty much got groceries and went to appointments, but Dr. Hirt told me I had to go sit outside for at least 15 minutes a day, and after a month that graduated to walking outside for 15 minutes a day. Anyway, all that to say that the whole 'tied to a house to haunt foreva' hasn't really phased me much. The property isn't exactly small, and even our limited ghostly boundaries are relatively big," Stiles laughed a little. "Old me would feel trapped and crazy though, I'm sure."

"I miss driving," Derek said. "I had this Camaro that I'd drive around on backroads; Laura tagged along sometimes. The gas was ridiculous, but it was worth it to just get out of my head for a while. I liked the scenery."

Stiles whistled. "Camaro, damn. I've had the same beaten down Jeep since I was 16, but honestly, I can't give her up. I've basically replaced everything in the damn thing to keep her. But, I mean, I lost my v-card in her. Scott and I toked up parked in a field and had crazy conversations. I bought her with money I'd literally been saving since I was ten. She's my baby."

"I get it," Derek said. "Laura said Dad wanted to get me a Camaro when I graduated high school, as long as I hadn't wrecked the Accord or gotten a ticket. She surprised me with it on my 18th birthday, and we took it for a drive," he paused, exhaled heavily, and some of the tension drained away. "We ended up in a damn Walmart parking lot because she started crying, and it wasn't long til I was, too."

Stiles lost his breath for a moment at the scene that popped into his head with just those few words as description: Derek and Laura, Laura proud to be fulfilling their father's wish, happy for Derek, but both of them missing the piece of the picture where their dad smiled and teased Derek about getting all the ladies with his new ride, but with a reminder that he had to be careful with it, before sending him off for a test run with a happy wave.

Stiles could see Derek and Laura smiling in the car, Derek in his small way, and then the weight of the loss hitting them as he drove this car that was new, but still heavy with unmade memories. Laura would have blinked back tears before she just crumbled, with Derek unable to keep himself together in the face of the open, raw devastation.

But Stiles ended up smiling a little, because Derek spoke of the Camaro fondly, and that could only mean one thing.

"Therapy car, huh?"

He saw Derek's lips quirk up, too, though he still looked kind of far away.

"Yeah."

They sat for awhile, lost in their own thoughts, until Stiles started to itch a little, restless for a scene change.

"Hey, think we could play something while they have family bond time out there?" Stiles asked, and it was a moment or two before Derek shrugged.

"We can try."

"Alright then," Stiles said, uncurling from his ball and stretching. "Off to see the wizard."

Three days later, the family was gone, and Stiles found himself trying to read in the returning quiet.

But he was a little distracted.

He would be the first to say that the experience was kind of bizarre, like he and Derek had been the crew on some reality TV show or something. It felt weird to think that this would keep happening, that people would just continue to cycle in and out of this place until he faded away or the house blew up or something.

He'd tried talking to Derek about it, but he'd actually seemed kind of disturbed when Stiles brought it up. Stiles could tell that he'd already thought it all out, and just didn't want to acknowledge that reality any more than he had to. Which, okay, that was fine with Stiles, but he kind of wanted to hash this out outloud. He couldn't help but feel like he was being forced on these massive invasions of privacy, and it made him really uncomfortable.

Speaking of discomfort, there was Derek himself, who, ironically, was also a source of comfort.

Which he didn't want to really think about.

Stiles finally dropped his book to his chest, rolling his eyes to the ceiling and sighing deeply. He fumbled his way off the couch and stood into a stretch before making his way to the kitchen to see if Derek was out on the beach; he spotted him standing out close to the water.

Stiles smiled a little to himself, feeling something like contentment settle over his skin, quickly followed by a sense of strangeness. It was weird as fuck, this calm warmth that Derek inspired in him, but Stiles would take it and run with it as far as he possibly could… Even if sometimes he wanted to run screaming back the way he came.

All of this had been growing steadily, he thought to himself, making his way down the back steps. Even though the things in his head and the world around him still felt muted and foggy sometimes, moments of clarity weren't as few and far between as they had been.

Feelings… Seriously. They were scary, sometimes. It'd been so long since he'd felt them so full on, like he'd been getting recently, and he wasn't always sure what to do with it all. But things like the pressure and anxiety he'd felt that first night that he and Derek had shared the bed definitely classified as scary. The affection and attachment he felt for Derek that he'd been slowly coming to terms with the last few days (because fucking hell, Stilinski, _acknowledge your feelings bro, you don't get them that often these days_ ), that shit was terrifying.

But the anxiety over those feelings wasn't enough to fully put a damper on his pursuit of them. He'd made a promise to try, and trying meant facing things that he wasn't sure he really wanted to face, and accepting things that he wanted to ignore until further notice. Happiness fell into both of those categories, even as it was something that he knew he should - and, underneath it all, did - want.

And Derek.

Well, Derek made him _happy_.

Progress?

Progress.

The sand was cool under his feet, and he took a moment to dig his toes into it before shaking them off and walking further toward Derek, who still hadn't noticed him. He was probably distracted by the sunset, which was really quite beautiful, Stiles thought, the way that the water seemed to reflect the pink-orange-purple-red of the sky, not a cloud to be seen.

He walked right up beside Derek, who turned and gave him a small half-smile, and something about the soft set of his lips and the gentle light around him made Stiles' heart pick up speed, his mouth going dry and breath catching.

He wanted to keep this moment forever. Freeze-frame, whatever, just something to let him hold onto this, to what he was seeing and feeling right now. He felt like there was a low hum of electricity sparking through his entire body, and he suddenly felt overwhelmed and like he wanted to laugh and cry all at once.

 _What the fuck, I am an actual romance novel heroine right now_.

He loved Derek.

Like, _loved_ him.

 _Holy shit_.

There was a ripping sensation in his core, like he was being split at the seams, like everything that had been deleted from him emotion-wise over the last forever had just been copied to the clipboard and there was suddenly a fucking novel-length book of emotion pasted right on to his psyche. He was on the edge of that cliff from the night with the bed, and something had just picked him up and thrown him off of it into an ocean of fire, or, hell, maybe something had launched him into the sun - either way, he was completely fucked.

He started laughing.

At first, it was this choked-out, strangled mess of a laugh, because he was still struggling for air, mind going a thousand miles an hour while his heart tried to beat its way out of his chest, but then it turned into this huge, uncontrollable belly-laugh. He was laughing straight from his gut until it became an all-out guffaw, and he suddenly found himself collapsing into the sand and unable to do anything but laugh through the tears that had started collecting in his eyes.

"Stiles?" Derek asked, and hell, he probably thought that Stiles had finally snapped - which, shit, probably wasn't too far from reality - but Stiles couldn't bring himself to look at him. He thought he might actually explode if he did.

So he just kept laughing, there on all fours on the beach, staring at the sand and crying, too, unable to stop any of it.

It was simultaneously the most hilarious, wonderful, and horrifying thing he'd ever experienced.

He noticed movement out of the corner of his eye, and when he glanced over, he saw Derek's face blurred through his tears. He laughed all the harder, and his fucking insides were probably going to end up all over the ground, he was being torn in so many different directions. He felt a wave of nausea come over him, and dropped from his position on all fours to his side, facing away from Derek, who he just seriously could not look at right then.

An eternity later, the laughter gave way into tears, into heaving sobs and snot and a hoarse throat, and Stiles just curled tighter into himself, trying to keep his fucking soul from exploding. He didn't feel like he was in his body anymore, or that he was even on earth anymore, and maybe he wasn't, maybe his soul was finally moving on into the ether, he didn't fucking know.

All he could register was that he was ugly crying like he hadn't cried since he was two and throwing a temper tantrum, this unbound, happy grief wracking his body. He buried his face in his hands and let out everything, because he was completely powerless to keep any of it in, and he honestly wasn't sure if he wanted to get control.

He didn't even know why he was crying. Hell, he didn't have the wherewithal to remember what had set all of this off in the first place. He was just in a shit-storm of emotion, feeling happy and terrified and undeniably sad, all of it overwhelming and straight up making him feel crazy.

It felt like he'd cried himself right out of the time-space continuum, but he registered a warmth at his side, and realized he was being carried somewhere fucking bridal-style. But god, who even cared? Stiles certainly couldn't give less of a fuck. He just hid his face in his hands and let the torrent wash over him, body giving way to laughing-sobs then back to open weeping again.

There was no telling how long it went on, how long it would _go_ on, but eventually it did start to slow, until all that was left was a whimpering, giggling mess of Stilinski. When he finally started coming to, the first thing he registered was a rough texture against his forehead - stubble? - followed by gentle fingers stroking his ankle where his sleep pants had ridden up. He hiccuped, then pulled in a deep breath followed by a shaky exhale.

He finally pulled his hands away from his face, and absently noted the snot that had been covering them evaporated (thank god). His nose was drying, too, though there were some straggling tears. He opened his eyes and saw that he was being cradled against Derek's body, in his lap. They were sitting on the gigantic downstairs bed-swing thing, and Derek was humming quietly while Stiles breathed himself back into reality, each breath more steady than the last.

"Back with me?" Derek asked, quiet, gentle. Stiles couldn't say anything, so he nodded yes, then no, then yes again. "It's alright. You're okay, you're okay," Derek murmured, his hand coming up to run through Stiles' hair, gentling him.

They sat that way while Stiles got his bearings, and when he remembered the revelation that had triggered the whole episode he'd just had, he closed his eyes. He absolutely _could not_ deal with that right now; he was in no way equipped to handle that live-wire feeling.

So he just said, voice trembling, "I'm gonna go to sleep now," and curled into Derek's arms and thought of rest, and everything went quiet around him.

* * *

For the first time since he'd started "sleeping," Stiles woke up muzzy-headed and tired. The sun was bright, and he squeezed his eyes shut tightly against it and flopped over onto his other side, but it was no use; the light just followed him.

When he finally did manage to crack his eyes open, he noticed that he was on the porch swing under the house, with the throw blanket from the couch covering him. He was a little confused, until he remembered what had happened in unfortunate technicolor flashes.

In love with Derek. Biggest nervous breakdown ever. Or nervous fix up? Stiles noticed that he was feeling... better, in a general sense. Or, at least, feeling _things_ , which essentially meant he was feeling better. There was some sort of pleasant buzz in his head where the emptiness had been, and though there was still quite a lot of space to fill, there was at least _something_.

But still, what the actual fuck had happened, exactly? He remembered what amounted to a sonic boom of feelings going off in his head, and bam, on the ground, laughing, crying, screaming, making a general mess of himself. He'd lost time between the start of it and when he came to settled in Derek's arms. Which… God, how embarrassing, what the fuck.

Stiles ran both hands through his hair before smoothing them down the sides of his face, pulling the skin in a mockery of an upset frown. He groaned and curled back up, rolling onto his side on the bed-swing and just laying there while he tried to make sense of himself.

So. There were feelings. Feelings in general, and then feelings for Derek. All of it felt like a live-wire, or maybe like something was searing over his raw emotions. There was a soft hum of contentment, but twisted up with that was the sadness and guilt that had become his besties, not to mention the thread of anxiety that was always woven in there somewhere. But all of it was like… A hundred times more than he'd been feeling, and all at once. His brain was struggling to process any of it and his soul felt like it had been flayed. Things flowed through him, things he remembered and knew that he could deal with, but it was like trying to remember how to ride a bike when you'd only just learned to crawl again.

He was grateful for the feelings, but he couldn't help but feel an eensy bit of resentment for how they'd shown up. Wasn't this shit supposed to be a gradual deal? Shouldn't there have been some, like, warning, at least? This was just uncalled for, this onslaught of stuff that he was suddenly expected to sort through, and it felt like it was all going to come exploding out before he could even get a handle on it. God, he wanted to start laughing and crying all over again. Maybe he even needed it.

He rolled onto his back and took a deep breath, trying to reroute his mind into thinking about good things, and how this was good progress and a step forward, et cetera, et cetera, and when he'd marginally calmed down, he opened his eyes to stare at the ceiling. His face felt tense, and it was surprising to note that he was just… smiling like a doofus. At nothing. At anything? Everything, maybe.

He heard movement from upstairs, and thought, _Derek_.

Which was quite the rain on his metaphorical parade. Seriously.

Because what was he supposed to do with the whole 'sorry I had a nervous breakdown and snotted all over you' thing? Wait, scratch that, what the hell was he supposed to do about the whole _love_ thing? How the fuck would that go? It'd been in the back of his mind, the attraction, but now that he was basically holding philosophical conversation with the bigass elephant in his mind, he didn't know how to handle it.

There were so many things that could, and probably would, go wrong with it. And that was such crap, because what he'd had with Derek pre-revelation was so, so precious to him, and something still a little fragile. Stiles knew that no matter how hard he tried, eventually his feelings would bleed over. Derek would notice, and when everything inevitably came vomiting out of Stiles, things would change irrevocably. Hell, for all Stiles knew, Derek could be a total homophobe, and how awkward would _that_ afterlife be? Not to mention miserable, lonely, and just… No. He couldn't think about that, couldn't deal, nope, not today.

But now what? What could he even do? How was he supposed to dig through this mountain of feelings when all he had was a fucking gardening spade?

Before his mind could really break into a lovely creative streak by exploring future scenarios involving Derek discovering Stiles' pathetic unrequited love, some clomping noises came from the general area of the stairs, and Stiles knew Derek was coming down.

Pretty much number one on the list of Things Stiles Does Not Want To Do was talk to Derek. Or even look at his face. Stiles heard Dr. Hirt rambling in his head about not being ashamed of feelings, but Stiles was still embarrassed, and apparently in love, with no idea what to do about it.

He contemplated his options, which were limited to fight, flight, or freeze, but before he could even make a decision there was Derek, peeking at him over the back of the swing. As soon as Stiles caught sight of his stubble, he squeezed his eyes shut and threw an arm over his face. It was quiet for a while, which Stiles expected; he knew Derek was trying to keep the ball in Stiles' court here and let him talk when he was ready, but the thing was that Stiles wasn't sure he ever would be ready.

It took a while, but eventually Derek did break the silence.

"Are you okay?"

Stiles swallowed thickly. "And that's the million-dollar question," he said, voice a little shaky. "But then again, are any of us ever really okay?"

"Stiles-"

"I'm fine. I'm just… I need some time. I'm - It's a lot. A lot at once, okay? I'll be good in a little while, and I'll come find you." There was no response, but Stiles was used to these quiet lapses when Derek was trying to make a decision. Stiles steeled himself, and then uncovered his eyes to look at Derek. And it was nuts, because looking at his face was like staring into the sun - just completely overwhelming. "I'll be fine, promise," he repeated, giving his best shot at some semblance of a smile. It must have passed for believable, because though Derek gave him a once-over, he nodded.

"I'm here," he said, before disappearing from behind the swing. Stiles sat up and watched him walk out towards the beach, where he'd already set up their two chairs. Despite himself, there was a warmth that bubbled up in his mind.

God, what a considerate douchebag.

Stiles flopped backward, and his fears swamped him again.

He'd forgotten what it was like to truly feel afraid. When he felt completely hopeless, when there was nothing left in him to give a damn, nothing was scary anymore. But this, this was fucking terrifying. This was another human being having power over him... This was him exposing all kinds of vulnerable integral pieces of himself and hoping nothing started zapping them with lasers or chopping them with swords and okay, enough with the video game boss-battle comparison.

The stuff with Derek wasn't a dependency, but it was intense. It wasn't a need, but it was a knowledge that he would be devastated if he were to lose it. His relationship with Derek was important, something that he wanted to stay good, because they were good together, even as just… friends, or whatever.

So why ruin all that?

Who the hell decided Stiles was capable of making these kinds of decisions? Jesus. Couldn't he at least have dealt with the Derek-feelings a little while _after_ having the feelings-feelings-feelings breakdown?

This was too much. This was just too fucking much, seriously, and here he was on his own with all this because Derek was his only human contact and he _really_ couldn't talk to Derek about everything. Hell, he could barely even think about Derek without wanting the ground to swallow him whole.

He didn't know what to do. He had to come to some sort of decision, but he needed time to figure out what that should be, and Derek would probably want to talk to him soon. Derek wasn't needy, but Stiles knew he was probably worried, or at the very least weirded out, and there would need to be at least something resembling a talk-it-out session, especially if he didn't want Derek to shut down on him. But even so, Stiles needed to take care of Stiles first; he wasn't going to be any help to anybody if he couldn't get his head on straight.

He just needed a little time.


	3. Chapter 3

Stiles had never been very good at subtle avoidance, and he knew it was probably obvious that he'd been avoiding Derek.

After rolling around on the swing and working himself up into what he could only think of as a tizzy (for some damn reason), he'd gotten up and headed up to the house, where he set up a rousing game of solitaire and played until he felt a little more grounded. It gave him something to do with his hands and mind, got him out of his head for a little while, which was something that was harder to do when he was reading or writing or doing anything that directly involved words. Making up terrible math problems (long division and multiplication when he was younger, algebra later, but fuck calculus) and solving them was another thing he'd done in the past too.

Feeling marginally more calm, he'd put the pack of cards away before grabbing a book and hiding in the front yard until the sun set, when he wandered - sneakily - back up to the house, glancing around carefully inside for signs of Derek. He saw him sprawled on the couch, but his eyes were closed with his book resting on his chest. Stiles had made his way inside and up to the attic room without waking Derek up.

The next morning he waited to sleep until he heard Derek stir downstairs, and snuck out to the swing again with the cards when he woke up in the evening and saw Derek out in the front yard. His thoughts were still all over the place, and more often than not he found himself alternately catastrophizing or fantasizing about what he should do about his Derek-feelings, as well as getting caught up in the tornado that was the re-emergence of real, actual emotions.

The worst was when the two were combined, because he went from the happy bubble of happy-ever-after to the black hole of total rejection over and over again, and he felt each scenario like it was happening. He'd almost forgotten how intense happiness, that anxious excitement when it felt like something he wanted was something he could actually have, could be. It was exhilarating and, yet again, scary as fuck, and as good as it was, it was also terrible in some ways.

He heard Derek coming down the stairs, and waited until he heard him rooting around in the storage closet before popping up and sneaking over to the stairs and up into the house. He had to be light-footed to avoid Derek hearing him, and immediately felt like the worlds biggest coward.

He knew that the avoidance game wasn't a good one to play. He needed to just confront Derek, and what would happen would happen, but Stiles had always been a fan of ignoring problems, especially scary ones, and despite all the therapy and knowledge to the contrary, he still had trouble not falling into that habit. It didn't help that he hadn't dealt with anxiety from fear in at least a year, and so it just felt that much more difficult.

He carefully shut the door behind himself, and listened closely to see if Derek was coming back up. He'd bet that Derek was headed out to the beach, but he wanted to be sure. He didn't exactly know what he'd do if Derek came back into the house, but his mind was conjuring up different ways out. Maybe he'd hide in one of the downstairs bedrooms.

But sure enough, Derek was headed out to the beach with a chair in hand, the sky a watercolor as the sun set slowly over the ocean. Stiles wanted to go out to him, sit and watch this beautiful thing with him, but he just… couldn't. He felt something heavy drop in his chest, and remembered that this feeling was longing. A deep, clenching pull inside his heart to just go to him.

It only got worse when Derek set up a second beach chair.

He had to do something about this. He was going to end up hurting their relationship, hurting _Derek_ , if he kept avoiding him. It was obvious in that one act, a stupid fucking chair, that Derek cared, that he was worried, that he wanted Stiles' company, actually _missed him_ , and was waiting for Stiles and making room for him for whenever he wanted to come back.

In the midst of his own angst, he'd forgotten just how lonely Derek really was.

 _'Come on, Stilinski. Just go out there. Just sit with him, you don't even have to talk, just fucking sit in the chair and watch the goddamn sunset_.'

Stiles nodded to himself, shoved all of his shit under a mental rock, and stepped out onto the porch, down the stairs, and to the beach, one foot in front of the other. But there came a point where he couldn't make himself move, where he stopped in his tracks and all of the doubt and worry over what might change with Derek surfaced, and he was paralyzed. He swallowed heavily, thinking to himself, ' _Walk, come on, just walk over there, he's waiting for you_.'

He couldn't tell if it was helping, or making it worse.

But then he saw Derek lean forward and bury his face in his hands, and Stiles felt a wave of sadness hit him like a wall, and knew he couldn't just leave it like this.

He took one step, and didn't let himself stop.

He settled carefully in the chair next to Derek, who hadn't moved. He wasn't sure if Derek had noticed him, and he didn't know whether or not he should say anything. His heart was hammering in his throat already, and the thought of having Derek's attention on him made him want to freak out - until he remembered that this was Derek. This was Derek, who had never expected anything from him, who gave him space and companionship without ever demanding anything back, just taking what was given and giving in return.

Stiles took a breath, and leaned over and nudged Derek with his shoulder.

"Hey," he said quietly, but kept his eyes on the ocean. Derek ran one hand down his face, rubbing at his mouth for a moment before leaning back.

"Hi," he returned. Stiles waited for him to continue, and started to feel awkward as they just sat there, nothing between them but the crash of the waves and the constant brushing sound of the beach breeze. But Stiles had no idea what to say, and when he glanced over, Derek was just staring out at the ocean.

"I'm okay," Stiles blurted, but Derek was still quiet. Stiles was trying to think of something to add, which would probably lead to some sort of humiliating verbal diarrhea, but Derek saved him from that fate.

"Did I… Do something?" he asked, and Stiles blinked, and then something clicked for him: Derek had probably been blaming himself for Stiles' freak out. Hell, he'd probably immediately blamed himself, because Derek and guilt complex went together like milk and cookies, and Stiles avoiding him after Derek had done his best to comfort him was probably like tearing into Derek's vulnerability and infecting it with angst.

"No! No, you didn't… I swear, it wasn't you. I just - I don't - Something happened," Stiles finished lamely, his voice starting to tremble toward the end.

"I didn't mean to do it, whatever I did," Derek said. His voice sounded hollow, and Stiles fucking hated it.

"You didn't do anything, Derek, I swear to god, I'm… I'm just going through some - some stuff," Stiles rambled, but when he looked at Derek, his jaw was tense and his eyes were hurt, and Stiles knew that he absolutely didn't believe him. "You were just yourself, there wasn't anything -"

Derek barked a laugh, but it was completely empty. "I'm sorry that I'm so fucking offensive," he said, and started to get up. Stiles grabbed his arm, gripping tightly, feeling desperate and anxious and hurt.

"That came out wrong! Listen, I just - I got… triggered, into feeling stuff again. And it's a lot, and I'm really bad at this, but believe me when I say that you didn't do anything, you just - you're perfect, there's nothing wrong with you or how you treat me, you're amazing, actually, and that's why-" Stiles' breath caught, but Derek sat back into the chair, frowning. Stiles relaxed his grip on Derek's arm, which Derek was already pulling away. Stiles started to take his hand back, but Derek caught it, holding loosely for a long, agonizing moment. He looked up, met Stiles' eyes.

"I'm… bad at this."

Stiles blinked, felt his heart stutter. With the hand-holding and the "this" and the everything, what was Derek trying to tell him? Did he… Did Derek… Was it? What?

"Please tell me that by 'this,' you mean what I think you mean, because I'm bad at this too. Like, really bad, surprised-I-ever-got-laid bad, fumbled-through-awkward-dates bad, unrequited-love-for-years bad. Oh my god, please tell me to shut up, or throw sand at me or something, I'm dying here dude."

Derek just gave him a little smile, and laced their fingers together.

"God help us, then."

Stiles squeezed his hand, and his head felt like it was about to float off his body.

"No joke. I'm - uh, I need some clarification though, because like I said, really bad at this! Can't interpret signals, need it in writing, like, in triplicate, sign here, initial there -"

"Stiles."

"Yes! Yes, listening, I'm all ears."

"If we could leave here, I'd ask you on a date right now."

Stiles swallowed, and then, like he just couldn't fucking _help himself_ , said, "You mean like a coffee-date date or like a dinner-and-a-movie date or walk-through-the-park-picnic-lunch date or -"

"Oh my god."

" - like a hey-come-up-to-my-place-after-meeting-at-a-bar or…?"

Derek squeezed Stiles' hand, bringing their hands up to his mouth so he could press his lips to the back of Stiles' in a not-quite kiss, mumbling, "There are times when I honestly can't tell if you're serious, or if you just think you're funny and want to hear yourself talk."

Stiles smiled, wide, just this terrible face-splitting number that was all teeth and flared nostrils and squished eyes and shit, he probably looked ridiculous.

"Nervous rambling, dude. I physically cannot stop myself."

"I figured. Now shut up and watch the sunset."

"It's practically night."

"Okay, then just shut up."

"So romantic."

"Always," he said, and pressed a real kiss to the back of Stiles' hand.

Stiles was a puddle on the sand, a thousand things running through his head, but above everything else, he was… happy.

They sat for a while in silence, the ocean a calming white noise as Stiles let an excited warmth wash over him. It was… It was a lot. It was so much that he felt like he might fly apart, but Derek's hand was warm and dry in his own, something keeping him pulled together and tied to earth. That simple human touch, that comfort, was something that Stiles hadn't allowed himself in a long time, at first upset because he felt pitied, and later because he thought he was too despicable to deserve something so good.

Stiles gently squeezed Derek's hand, looking out at the dark horizon where the sun had long-since set. His eyes traveled upward through the sky, tracing constellations he'd known by heart since he was little.

"Mom loved the stars," he said, a small smile making an appearance through a dull ache, one that had never quite gone away. "She taught me constellations when I was little, and whenever there was a meteor shower, she'd take me and Dad out to this lake, where there was no light pollution, and we'd spread out and watch the sky until there wasn't a single one falling anymore. Sometimes we'd be out til, like, four in the morning. We'd all feel like hell the next day, especially if it was a school night, but it was so, so worth it."

Derek shifted their hands so that he could gently stroke his thumb back and forth across Stiles' palm.

"It's good you have those memories. They're… something special."

Stiles hummed his agreement, and then pulled Derek up with him. He turned Derek toward the ocean and stood behind him, then gripped one of Derek's shoulders while putting his arm over the other, pointing out toward the sky.

"Start simple. Big Dipper," Stiles traced the pattern, then shifted, "Little Dipper, or Ursa Minor. And if you spread out from the Big Dipper, you get Ursa Major, the bear."

Derek nodded, and Stiles felt a strange mix of sadness and contentment flood through him. He faltered for a moment, swallowing and taking a deep breath, letting his body relax as he did. He let himself feel the warmth at his front, Derek's body not quite touching, but near enough to remind Stiles of where he was, and, most importantly, that he was okay.

It was only for a second, and before Derek could say anything about the pause, Stiles continued.

"Leo," he said, voice steady, "One of the easiest to see, and then Cancer, right at the lion's mouth. Move a little, and you've got Hydra, the longest constellation. You can only see those three in the spring."

Stiles' breath hitched when Derek reached up his hand to weave their fingers together over his shoulder.

"I like that you know this," he said, and Stiles felt his heart beat hard in his chest, affection washing over him. God, this was going to be the death of him. Death by overwhelming good feelings.

He wondered if it would be okay to pull Derek back against his body, wrap his arms around his waist.

"If I knew as much about useful stuff as I know random trivia, I'd be a goddamn genius," he said instead.

"This kind of stuff isn't useless though. Like I said, they're memories. Important," Derek said, and some intense emotion started welling up inside him, because Derek was right; they were important, and Stiles should never forget that. "Plus, you can never get lost at sea."

Stiles huffed, rested his forehead against the back of Derek's neck, and swallowed down the lump that had started to form. "Yep, there's always that," he raised his head and pulled Derek around. "C'mon, let's go up."

Derek must have sensed Stiles' mood, because he just nodded and let himself be tugged toward the house until he fell into step beside Stiles.

Getting total control back would take a long time, but Stiles was pretty sure he could handle it, especially (cheesily enough) with Derek's hand in his.

* * *

Stiles forced mancala on Derek when he'd pulled out the board and saw Derek put on the facial expression embodying the word "violence." Derek grimble-grumbled as Stiles set it up.

"I hate this game."

"I can tell."

"You really don't get it. I _hate_ this game."

Stiles rolled his eyes. "And _why_ exactly do you hate it so much?" Derek was silent, but glared laser beams at the board Stiles had set up. Stiles sighed, and was about to just say fuck it, when Derek finally replied.

"I'm bad at it."

Stiles sputtered out a laugh. "You hate this game because you're bad at it? Are you serious right now?"

Derek rolled his eyes, but there was something off about him. "I have some not-so-pleasant memories of it."

"Like what? Because let me tell you, I've been frustrated by losing games before, and it's time to put on your big-boy pants, seriously."

Derek stayed quiet, and when Stiles looked a little more closely, he noticed how Derek had locked his jaw, his nostrils flared. There was something way bigger than just annoyance running through Derek's head.

"You're not telling me the whole story, are you?"

"Can we just not play the fucking game!" Derek snapped, and Stiles reeled back, surprised. Derek hadn't snapped at him since those first big fights they'd had, and Stiles was hurt and confused, and, in turn, starting to get pissed. Anger, though familiar, never ended well for Stiles.

"Fine! Jesus christ Derek, you don't have to be a dick about it. Use your goddamn words for once," Stiles said, haphazardly throwing the pieces back into their little velvet bag and slamming the board shut. He went to the game closet and shoved it back on the shelf, then gripped the door frame, shutting his eyes and breathing.

When he turned around, Derek was nowhere to be seen, and then Stiles heard him running down the back stairs. Stiles slid to the floor and ran his hands through his hair, muttering "Fuck," under his breath.

God, how could he have fucked this up _already_?

Something about the game had triggered Derek into freaking out, and Stiles had just lashed back at him because he couldn't control his temper when he was hurt. He felt like an asshole, but was still aching from the shock of reaching his hand out only for Derek to show his teeth at him. He was pissed at himself and at Derek, upset, and hurt, and it was all rising up inside him rapidly, threatening to drown him. His face was flushing and his eyes were burning, and he knew it'd all spin out of control unless he gripped himself right then.

He pulled his knees up to his chest, and systematically started the tension-release technique, focusing on his breathing and trying to slow the roll of his thoughts. He was okay, it was just a little fight. Not even something big enough to be a fight, really. It was just surprising, but he could handle it. There wasn't anything to worry about, shit like this happened all the time. Not the end of the world, just breathe, just breathe, tense, hold, exhale. Inhale and tense, hold, exhale. Repeat.

Stiles blinked himself back to the present, body feeling loose and brain feeling less like a warzone, and tried to decide what to do. He wasn't sure if leaving Derek alone right then was the best idea, but if Derek pushed him away, Stiles wouldn't know what to do with that. Should he wait for Derek to come to him in his own time?

No. No, Stiles should go find him.

He stood up slowly, and made his way down the back stairs. He wasn't sure where Derek might have gone, but he couldn't see him on the beach. Then his eyes caught on a dark patch just above the back of the bed-swing.

Derek was sitting with his head tilted back and eyes shut, but his body was completely tense. Stiles tentatively sat down next to him, letting the dip of the cushion announce his presence rather than breaking the silence. It was quiet for a long time, so Stiles curled up on his side and waited, practicing relaxing again so that his head wouldn't launch itself into the sun.

"I don't want to talk about it," Derek said, finality in his voice. Stiles rolled onto his back, eyes still closed.

"You don't have to. I wouldn't make you tell me - "

"You just fucking yelled at me to 'use my goddamn words for once.'"

Stiles squeezed his eyes shut, frustration bubbling up. "I'm sorry, okay? I know it's… it's already hard to talk about shit, and I didn't mean it to come out like that. You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to, but I don't deserve to have my hand bitten off for asking about it _once_. All you had to do was tell me it was a sore spot for you, dude; that's what I meant by 'use your words.' And contrary to popular belief, I do actually listen when it counts."

Stiles heard Derek shift. "I'm… I didn't mean to yell like that."

Stiles nudged Derek's thigh with his foot. "I know. Just like I didn't mean to snap back at you. Shit happens; we're both pretty new to this feelings crap."

Derek pulled one of Stiles' feet down into his lap, a hand resting on top of it with his thumb digging into the arch of Stiles' foot. God, it felt good.

"It's weird," Derek started, but seemed to catch on whatever it was he wanted to say. Stiles wiggled his toes and stuffed his other foot under Derek's thigh and felt him deflate, the tension draining out. "I want to tell you, but I don't want to even think about it, much less talk about it."

"Welcome to therapy," Stiles said, and Derek snorted. "But as much as I want to know, or help, it's up to you. And you can tell me whenever you want, even if it's never. I just don't want to trip over a landmine like I just did, so you've gotta tell me what to avoid."

Derek moved his hand from Stiles' foot to grasp his hand and pull, and Stiles took the hint and sat up, meeting Derek's eyes.

"I don't know everything that… sets it off, but. And it's so fucking stupid. It's such a stupid fucking list and I-"

"Hey," Stiles interrupted, stopping Derek before he could get going. "Things that upset you aren't stupid, especially things that make you really lose it. I mean, if it makes you feel better, I had to have a parent-teacher meeting after I left class and didn't come back because my teacher was wearing the same perfume Mom always wore. I was mad because that was _her_ scent, you know? It seems silly, but there it is."

"Okay," Derek breathed. "Okay. Mancala. Not being able to breathe. The song "Your Love" by The Outfield. Bach's Cello Suites. Having - Um. Having my fingers… sucked. I - There might be more, but those are the worst."

"Okay. Noted. Well, at least we probably won't have to worry about the songs, and I'll leave the game and the other stuff alone, too," Stiles paused, let that sink in while Derek completely relaxed. "There's something else that I think we should talk about. And it's nothing bad, promise."

"What is it?"

"Well, it's been a pretty long time since I've done the relationship thing, and I'm not trying to be mean here, but I don't think you've had the best run in that department, either. So instead of bumbling in the dark and potentially stomping all over each other's buttons, I think we should figure out what we're okay with," Stiles stopped there, trying not to feel awkward, and failing miserably.

"With regard to…?" Derek asked, and he sounded like he genuinely had no idea where Stiles was going.

"The pace of the - y'know. The relationship. Pace. Touching. Stuff," Stiles winced. "God, this is ridiculous, I'm fucking 24 and I can't talk about intimacy without sounding like an idiot."

Derek laughed a little, and Stiles scoffed playfully at him, before Derek's face went more serious.

"I like touching, feeling close," he stopped. "Why is this so hard?"

"Because we're both emotionally 12?" Stiles offered. He shook his head and smiled, swallowing his nerves down against what he was about to say, but still feeling himself flush. "Okay, how about this: right now, you look really fucking cute with that frowny-smile thing you do, and I want to kiss you. So, for the sake of alleviating my mortification at having admitted that, can I?"

Derek, the giant cheese ball, brought one hand up to cup the side of Stiles' face, and Stiles, equally cheesy, leaned into the touch. Derek pressed forward and touched their lips together, and Stiles swore his heart just completely stopped.

Soft, warm, and dry, and Stiles returned the gentle pressure before capturing Derek's lower lip between his own. Stiles thought maybe that would be it, when Derek pulled away, but it turned out that he was just seeking a better angle so he could lean back in, brushing their lips before gently coaxing Stiles' mouth open and letting his tongue slip carefully inside. Stiles inhaled sharply, and fell into it, his tongue gently meeting Derek's and then retreating, lips cushioning the edge of the kiss. Derek nipped at Stiles' lower lip before sliding back inside, and Stiles felt light-headed and floaty, like his whole being was centered in that kiss. His fucking soul felt like it was vibrating.

When it felt like too much, Stiles pulled back, resting their foreheads together.

"God," he murmured, and Derek snorted.

"Just Derek is fine."

Stiles blinked stupidly for a second before it clicked, and when it did he pinched Derek's side. Derek gave a way, waaaay over-exaggerated pout, and Stiles raised his head to mock-glare at him.

"That's what you get when you make Dad Jokes. You get pinched. You deserve worse, but all you'll get is a pinch."

"Okay, then next time you say a stupid pun, I get to do something to you -"

"Sounds promising."

"- that you _won't like_."

"And what exactly will this thing I won't like be?"

"You'll find out."

"You don't even have a plan, do you?"

Derek put his finger over Stiles' mouth. "Shhhhhh."

Stiles almost slipped his tongue out to lick the finger, but caught himself at the last moment, instead settling on a glare and pushing Derek's hand away.

"Don't you shush me!"

"Then if I ask nicely will you shut up?"

"Not a chance," Stiles said, smiling. Derek rolled his eyes, but Stiles could see the smile underneath, and then the mischievous look that followed.

"I know one way to shut you up."

Stiles raised his eyebrows and his arms in the universal "bring it on" gesture.

"Hit me with your best shot, Mr. McGrump."

Derek smirked and yanked Stiles to him, kissing him thoroughly with zero protest from Stiles.

* * *

Despite the awesome distraction, Stiles knew that they were going to have to finish the boundaries conversation eventually. Derek had been through some really fucked up shit when it came to his love life (and that was where Stiles was guessing most of that jumble of off-limit subjects came from), and Stiles really, really didn't want anything to blow up in his face when he and Derek were trying to have sexy time, or even just sitting around talking. But Stiles wasn't sure how to break into that conversation, especially considering the epic amounts of actual physical strain went into the last one, even though it had ended well.

Good times.

At the moment, they were laid up on the couch, reading, Derek resting against one arm of the couch and Stiles on the other. Every so often, Derek would nudge his toes across Stiles' foot. Stiles would never admit it, but this was the kind of thing he'd always hoped for in a relationship, this kind of unhindered and casual affection. Derek wasn't afraid to touch him; in fact, he actually kinda seemed to crave it, touching Stiles' head when he walked by or putting his hand over Stiles' when they sat together, like he just couldn't help himself.

Stiles felt like he was back in swooning-middle-school mode every single time. He wondered if, in the unknown possible frickin' eternity they'd be stuck in this house, the feeling - that tingle up his spine with the warmth following, something that made him feel so alive after being dead inside for so long - would ever go away. It was weird, if he was honest, and felt unfamiliar after all that time… Sometimes it felt like it might even be too much, and he'd have to sneakily breathe himself back down from being overwhelmed. He didn't want Derek to know that happened, ever, because he'd probably take it the wrong way and assume he was bad for Stiles' health when it was exactly 100% the opposite.

Overall, things were good. But Stiles just couldn't shake the niggling feeling that around the corner there was some kind of disaster pending, and he was 99.9998% sure that it could be avoided if he just got up the nuts to talk to Derek about their… relationship. It was making him anxious, under the surface, and he knew it was building up into something that might end up being destructo-bot.

God, feelings. Why was it so fucking hard to just talk out what they wanted out of this, what they wanted from each other? It really shouldn't be awkward; like, they knew each other pretty well, right? Then shouldn't it just be easy?

 _'Relationships are never easy.'_

Stiles flopped his book down on his chest and blew a raspberry, a grey cloud settling over his mood. Derek nudged him with his foot, and when Stiles rolled onto his side, Derek dropped his own book down.

"What?"

Stiles glanced over at Derek, who was looking at him questioningly, maybe a little exasperated.

"You always get so pissy when you get distracted from whatever you're reading," Stiles grumbled.

"You always seem to get distracting at the good parts."

"I'm not a damn mind-reader, dude. I don't know when you're at a good part."

"Then maybe just never interrupt me?" Derek asked, and Stiles could _feel_ the raised eyebrows. Stiles grunted in reply, but didn't offer anything more. He was itching, now, wanting to bring up the stupid boundary conversation, but a little worried that it wouldn't actually be a good idea right then, considering the grumpy mood that had just overtaken him. "Stiles. What?"

Stiles sighed and rolled back onto his back, staring at the ceiling. He should probably look at Derek, but that wasn't something he felt like he could do.

"We still need to talk about comfort zones, or… whatever. Boundaries."

Derek was quiet for a moment.

"Did I do something?" he asked, and Stiles closed his eyes and sat up, looking Derek in the eye.

"No. You didn't, I'm just-" Stiles stuttered, stopped, exhaled through his nose.

"Scared?" Derek said. Stiles nodded, and Derek set his book on the floor, sitting up and putting a hand on Stiles' knee. "Well, we're on the same page here."

"I don't want things to get shitty. But I just feel like we're gonna tear each other up one day," Stiles put his hand on top of Derek's. "We're both kind of assholes with relatively short tempers, and we know a lot about each other. I could tear you down and not even want to, and you could do the same to me."

Derek turned his hand palm up under Stiles', and wrapped his fingers around Stiles' wrist. Stiles returned the gesture, his fingers encircling Derek's wrist.

"My first reaction is to say, 'well maybe we're not good for this if we're both so fucking afraid.' But that's not what I want, or what you want," Derek said, and Stiles focused his gaze on their hands. "We're not bombs," Derek started. "We could be. But we're not. At least, that's what I have to tell myself. You know more about me than pretty much anyone… Even Laura. You really could break me down. And it's hard, trying to trust you. But as much as I can, I do."

"Same," Stiles said quietly, squeezing Derek's wrist in return. "It still scares the fuck out of me."

"Yeah."

There was silence for a while, not awkward, and Stiles tried to come up with a way to phrase what he wanted to say next.

"What's too much for you?" Stiles asked, then sighed in frustration. "I don't even know if I know what I meant by that."

"Do you mean sex?" Derek asked, and Stiles, embarrassingly enough, blushed.

"I guess? I just… I'm so fucking afraid I'm going to fuck this up. I'm coming out of a place where I literally believed I was too much of a burden for anybody to have to give a shit about, and if I'm not off the mark, you are too. And I'm pretty good at making people not love me."

Derek snorted. "I wrote the book on making people leave."

Stiles smiled a little. "Yeah? And I edited and published it."

"So where does that leave us?"

"I don't know," Stiles said. "We're both, like, mega vulnerable and scared. I want to say that we just can't take shit personally, but… I've always been the kind of person that shit sticks with, even if I know it was said just because somebody was pissed or upset. I was working on that before I died, and to be real, I don't even know the right way to go about letting crap like that go. We were still working on my goliath guilt complex when I croaked."

Derek was quiet, just gently stroking his fingers along the inside of Stiles' forearm.

"It's kind of dangerous how alike we are about some things," Derek said, smiling a little.

"Well, shit," Stiles said, and then let out an exaggerated groan. "What the hell?"

"Hey," Derek paused, long enough that Stiles looked up at him, right in his eyes. "I get that it's kind of ironic coming from me, but if we worry about this now, as much as we are, we won't enjoy anything."

"I know," Stiles said. "And I don't want it to drive me nuts, which is why I was bringing up the... thing."

Derek raised his eyebrows. "You mean boundaries? Sex?"

It was so fucking unfair how cool Derek was about this, when Stiles was sitting there feeling like a goddamn tomato.

" _Yes_ , okay. Yes. That."

Derek started brushing his thumb gently across Stiles' forearm.

"I want to," he started, and Stiles sighed.

"There's a big ass 'but' right there, isn't there."

When Stiles looked up, Derek was blushing. Thank god.

"Yeah. I'm - sex is…" Derek stopped, sighed through his nose, started again. "One night stands, people I'd never see again, that was fine. But it's been a long time since I cared about someone and I don't. I..."

"You don't want to treat me like a one-night stand, huh?" Stiles said, pieces falling into place.

Derek nodded. "I wasn't kidding when I said I don't know how to do this."

"But you've been good with kissing so far, right? So it's just when below-the-belt gets involved?"

"Yes?"

"Then I guess… baby steps, dude. That's all I even know. I mean, I've got experience, don't get me wrong - no virgins here! - but, like, with me this fricken fragile? With someone else in the same boat? I've never played that game before."

Derek abruptly sat back into the arm of the couch, dragging Stiles along with him. Stiles, of course, ended up with his face in Derek's armpit and almost knee'd Derek in the balls.

"Graceful."

Stiles pulled himself together and glared up at Derek. "Well maybe if you'd warn a guy-"

"It wouldn't have made a difference."

Stiles huffed, crawling back so that he could settle between Derek's legs and smush his face into Derek's chest, grumbling. Derek's fingers wandered into Stiles' hair, scratching his scalp gently.

"'m not a dog," he mumbled, settling in.

"Sure."

They lay together for a while, quiet, but Stiles' mind was still working. A wild insecurity appeared.

"Just to be clear though…"

Derek sighed. "On what?"

"You are attracted to me, right? This isn't just some ploy to put off doing the deed with me because you're scared of moles or pale skinny butts or-"

Derek's fingers left his hair, only for his hand to come up and cuff him on the back of the head.

"Stiles."

"What? Some people think moles are weird or want nice butts to lay on and I just-" Derek actually smacked the back of his head this time, and Stiles gave a startled yelp. " _Ow_ , dude!"

"That's what you get when you're stupid," Derek said, voice pitched mockingly. "You deserve worse, but that's what you'll get."

"I'm throwing a flag on the play there, because you're not allowed to throw my own words back at me."

"Oh my god. Two minutes. It was quiet for two minutes."

"Psh, you love listening to me talk. I have a voice smooth as velvet, entertaining inflections and gestures. It's a free show."

"Can I give my tickets to someone else?"

"Sorry, brotato, you're trapped in this audience for the foreseeable future."

Derek hummed, his fingers starting back up in Stiles' hair.

It seemed that conversation was done, and in any case, Stiles was feeling kind of drained, and he was oddly comfortable snuggled into Derek's granite chest. He shoved his insecurities into a box and concentrated on his breathing for a while, until he was sort of zoned and drifting. Then he heard Derek, quiet.

"It's not so bad."

Stiles smiled a little, feeling the ever-growing little flame of contentment light up the dark just a smidgen more.

* * *

Stiles was sitting on the beach in the sand in just his boxers, staring at the full moon. It was still early enough in the spring that it was kind of chilly, but the cold felt good on his skin.

He liked the beach at night, looking out in the distance to where the stars ended and the ocean began. It was really cool, made him feel small, his sense of self becoming tiny and insignificant compared to the size of the ocean and the infinite size of the universe. It was kinda weird when he thought about it, about science, about the atoms that made up everything.

It was a good distraction from the fucked up way he'd felt all day. It'd started in the afternoon, out of nowhere, shortly before Derek conked out. Stiles had a sneaking suspicion that Derek was feeling shitty, too, but just wasn't telling Stiles, which kind of pissed Stiles off before he realized that he didn't really want to talk about his shit right then either.

Still, that was gonna have to stop. Keeping some stuff to themselves was one thing, but once they started hiding _too_ much stuff from each other… That was how people started building up resentment, issues, and trust was inevitably broken somehow. Fights between them would be dangerous, and even though Stiles was trying not to think about it, it was still in the back of his head - waiting for the other shoe to drop.

That aside, Stiles had started feeling shitty, for pretty much no reason. Maybe he'd gotten a little vibe from Derek's mood, or something, but the blackness had crept up on him out of nowhere.

And it was fucking terrifying, infuriating, because there he was, busting his ass to savor and protect these good little things, stuff within himself, stuff with Derek, but this _shit_ was just coming back. And Stiles was having a little pity party at the moment, because it just wasn't fucking fair.

It wasn't the curtain over his emotions, this time. It seemed like the full-on nothingness had vacated, leaving behind shadows of feelings, with the biggest shadows currently clouding over him. His little puny candle couldn't really handle it.

And that lovely little demon fuck, anxiety, was clawing in his head.

And it was Derek. It was how scared he was of loving someone. It was the bullshit fact that he'd left behind Scott and Lydia, Erica and Boyd, even fucking Jackson was probably a little affected. It was how fucked up it was that he had been trying so hard, and then just fucking died. Down some stairs, and kaput. Jesus christ.

And then that full circled back to Derek, who was the good that came out of that. Something good that Stiles didn't want to break further than Derek had already been broken, not to mention not breaking himself, too, in the process. This was supposed to be a thing that was of the mending variety, not the tearing, but fuck if Stiles felt like his hands might be made of scissors or something.

Suddenly the movie Edward Scissorhands was making a lot more metaphorical sense. Once he got past the Johnny Depp-ness, anyway.

Stiles looked up at the moon, where it was shining down on the ocean, and stood up, walking toward the water and stepping into it and out into the deep, until he was on his toes, hopping to balance between the gentle waves. Before long, he turned onto his back, floating along with his eyes toward the sky. The water was cold, but it seemed to sap the worry out of him. His foul mood was easing away, and he felt like maybe he had his head on right again.

He didn't know how long he was out there, but the sky had definitely changed since he'd gotten in. He was probably pretty close to the border of being zapped back into the house, but he ended up swimming back for the shore. Once he was out, dry, and clothed, he made his way back up to the house, wondering if Derek might be awake yet, kind of hoping he was so that maybe he could wheedle out what Derek's mood was about earlier.

When he walked in the house, it was to Derek sitting up, but curled into a tight ball on the couch, head buried in his knees.

Stiles was instantly in front of him, kneeling, trying to get Derek to look at him.

"Derek? Derek, what's wrong?" he asked, trying to shove down the anxiety he'd just spent so long in the fucking ocean to get rid of.

Derek didn't look up, but Stiles saw him squeeze in tighter on himself. At a loss, and getting freaked out, Stiles put his hands on top of Derek's.

"Derek, come on, look at me, okay?" Stiles asked, but Derek just shook his head. "What's wrong?" Another head shake. Stiles squeezed his hands and dropped his gaze to Derek's bare feet, thinking about how to handle this. "I'm gonna ask you yes or no questions, okay?"

Derek nodded his head.

"Did you just start feeling bad?"

No.

"Did something happen?"

Yes.

Well, shit. How the fuck was he supposed to get what happened out with yes or no questions? Stiles bit his lip, thinking.

"Did you see something upsetting?"

A pause.

No.

"Was it something that you did?"

No.

Fuck, fuck, and there it was, it had to have been something Stiles did, always Stiles, always fucking over the people he loves, jesus christ…

"Was it.." God, voice shaking and breaking. "Was it something I did?"

Shrug.

Stiles felt panicked tears starting behind his eyes, and he couldn't breathe. Had to breathe, just, breathe, can't get enough air, what the fuck did he do, what was happening, there wasn't… It was everything he didn't want, he'd broken something, done something, it was all the shit, it was all the shit he tried to tell himself was no big deal, stuff he shouldn't worry about, don't think about broken things or vulnerability or pain or disappointment or the future or anything because you can't you'll go nuts it's not it's all happening it's all here now everything he was afraid of-

"Derek, Derek, please, just... Yes or no, dude, you're fucking killing me, I can't," Stiles stutters on a breath, "Please, please, say something, I can't fucking breathe."

Derek suddenly released his grip on his legs, running his hands up Stiles' arms and gripping tight, but not raising his head for another long moment.

His eyes were bright and broken, red but waterless when he looked at Stiles, and then he unraveled, legs coming to the floor as he yanked Stiles up toward him, crushing him in his arms, and as the air was pushed out of him in that embrace, Stiles finally felt like he could gulp in breath again. He buried his face in Derek's neck, tears squeezing out of his eyes as his brain started slowing down, coming back online.

They sat there, breathing together, Stiles in a completely uncomfortable position halfway between Derek's lap and the floor with Derek squeezing the life out of his ribs, but seriously giving no shits about it, because he'd been so fucking close, so close to losing it.

"I thought I was alone again," Derek whispered, and then stronger, "I haven't been afraid to be alone in a long time, and now I'm fucking terrified of it."

Stiles pulled his head up enough to speak. "You're not alone; I'm here. I'm not going anywhere," he gave a watery chuckle, relief overwhelming him. "In it for the long haul, man. Eternity, even."

"I couldn't find you," Derek choked out. "I looked everywhere and you were just… gone."

"I was in the stupid ocean, I'm so sorry, I was feeling fucked up after you went to bed and it was the only thing I could think to do-"

"It's fine, it's okay, I just - I'm… I'm fucking scared of how scared I was," Derek's voice was back to a whisper, and Stiles had never heard him sound so vulnerable and small. There was always a hard edge to Derek when he was opening up, but this was some kind of raw thing that it seemed like Derek had zero control over.

Stiles pulled back, and Derek let him go enough that Stiles could climb up onto Derek, straddle his lap. He put their foreheads together, whispering back, "I'm here, it's okay."

Derek nudged forward, pressing his lips to Stiles', who opened for him, and the kiss turned desperate, deeply sliding into each other, like Derek was looking for some kind of affirmation, and Stiles did his damnedest to give it to him. Their tongues glided across each other, lips catching, biting, gentle pressure, alternately needy and sensuous. It went on and on, Stiles surging up into Derek, pushing him back against the couch, hands caressing Derek's arms, his neck, cupping his face, and telling him with his body that he wasn't going anywhere since Derek didn't seem to understand the words. Derek's hands smoothed up and down Stiles' back, gripped his hips hard, and then ran gentle fingers up Stiles' sides, like he wanted to pull Stiles into himself but knew he was fragile as glass. Stiles was completely lost in it, his thoughts slowing but his heart thundering.

The time between kisses became long and longer, until they slowed into gentle brushes as they just breathed each other in. Stiles was a big useless pile of emotions with a boner, and all he could do was bury his face in Derek's neck again, run his fingers through Derek's hair as Derek held him close.

They were quiet for a long time, Stiles coming back to himself and guessing Derek was doing the same. When he leaned back, he brought his hands up to cup Derek's face before raising his eyes to Derek's. He gave a small, tired smile.

"Well, that was an event."

Derek rolled his eyes, but it seemed strained, like he was trying to cling to some sort of normalcy rather than actually feeling it. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a beat and then opening them again. "It felt like everything was falling apart."

"I would have felt the same," Stiles said. "Trust me when I say you're not alone in this."

"I don't like feeling like I need somebody."

"Nobody does, dude. And in the real world, if we were, y'know, alive, we probably wouldn't be the needy mess we are here." Derek snorted at that, "But I have to admit that right now I'd probably go nuts without you, but just for a while, because after that it would be my fucking mission to find you again. And yeah, all of that - that's pretty fucking scary."

"I can't think about it."

Stiles sighed, brushed his thumb against Derek's cheekbone.

"I think we need to make a promise, here."

Derek looked at him curiously. "What promise?"

"If we ever get separated," Stiles started, determinedly pushing past the fear that gripped him at the thought, "No matter what, we can't give up on ourselves. We keep going."

Derek pulled Stiles close, and rested his forehead against Stiles' shoulder.

"I don't know if that's a promise I can keep."

Stiles guided Derek's head back up, forcing him to meet his gaze.

"Promise me."

Derek searched Stiles' eyes, and must have found the determination that Stiles was feeling, because he nodded, and breathed, "I promise."

Stiles smiled. "And I promise you back," he said, and leaned forward for a soft kiss.

When they broke away, Derek pushed him off gently and manhandled him into the position he wanted, which was apparently Stiles shoved up against the back of the couch. Stiles laughed the whole time, knowing exactly what Derek was after.

"Cuddle time with big spoon Stiles, huh?"

Derek huffed as he plopped down next to Stiles, rolling to his side and pulling Stiles' arm over him, lacing their fingers together with their hands resting next to Derek's chest - his heart.

"Yes, it's big spoon Stiles time. Now if you would -"

"Yeah, yeah, it's always 'shut up, Stiles,'" Stiles said playfully, planting a kiss on the back of Derek's neck.

"No. Talk to me."

Stiles smiled, squeezed Derek's hand.

"That, I can do."

* * *

Stiles was still feeling kind of fucked-up from the mood state he'd been in before Derek's meltdown, and then dealing with the additional stress from the fallout of that hadn't exactly helped. The whole thing had knocked them off kilter, and they weren't so much trying to ignore it as they were… trying not to pay attention to it.

Totally different things.

Stiles kept feeling like they were on the brink of an argument, despite the relatively happy note they'd left off on, what with the cuddling and the Stiles being allowed to talk extensively. But Derek had been tense since then, for some damn reason, and not especially responsive when Stiles poked at him or tried to lighten his mood.

Which, by the way, was hard enough when he wasn't exactly feeling that great either, thanks very much.

So Stiles was kind of shying away from the whole thing, and he didn't like how things were going. It was too quiet, and he could feel himself sinking a little, insecurity rearing its ugly head as he wondered what he did. Even knowing that it was probably just Derek hitting a rough spot in his own head didn't help the feeling that he'd done something wrong go away.

He really wanted to confront Derek about it, but at the same time, he didn't want to deal with it. And he was getting a little resentful of the fact that 90% of the time it was _him_ confronting _Derek_ about whatever was wrong. Would it kill Derek to be the one to come to him for once? Seriously.

So essentially Stiles was brooding on the couch, not even totally sure where Derek was. And the longer Stiles sat there staring at the blank TV, the more pissed and sad he got (emotions that were super strong, currently, which he could really fucking do without).

It wasn't fair that he'd only just gotten back his capacity to feel things again, only to be left in the dust with the same shitty feelings he'd had as his only feelings for so many months. It was so stupid, and so infuriating, just. Fuck.

And as much as he wanted Derek to come to him, he didn't know how much longer he could do this.

Stiles sighed, whacking his head against the back of the couch a few times. What the hell was the matter with him? This was ridiculous, he shouldn't let whatever had Derek's tight boxer-briefs in a twist get him this upset. Whatever Derek's problem was, it was Derek's problem until he let Stiles in, and Stiles was sick of having to bang on the door to get an answer. Christ.

He got up and went over to the bookcase, looking for some kind of distraction. He wasn't sure if he could focus enough to read, really, but what the fuck else was there to do? Solitaire?

Well, actually, that wasn't a bad idea. It'd be grounding and distracting, since he'd have to actively think about it, whereas he could get distracted reading if he wasn't super-duper into it.

So that's what he would do. He set up a game on the coffee table, and played. He was playing when Derek came in and sat on the couch behind him. Stiles thought about ignoring him, just to be a dick, but he knew that wouldn't exactly help Derek get over himself enough to tell Stiles what the fuck was wrong. So he tilted his head back and to the side, and looked up at Derek, who flicked his eyes down at Stiles briefly before sitting back and looking at the ceiling. Stiles huffed and glared down at his solitaire game, even as he felt fingers stroke gently over the back of his head.

"I know I haven't been good the last few days," Derek started, and Stiles struggled with himself to remain silent and let Derek say whatever it was he wanted. "Thinking you were gone really screwed me up. I don't know how to feel like that for someone, and I'm afraid."

Stiles sighed. "Dude, we already established that we're both scared, here. What's really wrong?"

Stiles tried to be patient as Derek worked in himself to spit out whatever it was he wanted to say, but he wasn't feeling especially generous at the moment, and started to stand up so he could stomp angrily away. But Derek grabbed his shoulder, making Stiles pause.

"What if it doesn't work?" Derek's voice was quiet.

"What if what doesn't work?" Stiles held his breath, afraid of what was going to come out of Derek's mouth. With his mood the way it was, all he could expect was the worst.

"This," Derek said. "Us. Being together."

Stiles shrugged Derek's hand off his shoulder and stood up, looking Derek in the eye. "So, what, you just want to give up? Stop being around each other because being together is hard and the thought of losing me makes you feel crazy? Because that's fucking cowardly, and if you solve your problems like that then I don't-"

Derek cut him off, jumping up and clamping a hand over Stiles' mouth, which immediately made Stiles spitting mad, until Derek said, "You need to stop before you say something you regret."

Stiles took a deep breath through his nose, nodded, and Derek released him. Stiles rubbed his hands back and forth through his hair, frustrated.

"Talk to me, then."

"I was trying to, but I'm not good at stuff like this," Derek said, and Stiles suddenly felt stupid for blowing up at him, because he knew this about Derek, but he was still a little too upset to admit it. "I just don't want this to fail and us be stuck together forever anyway."

Stiles sighed and collapsed on the couch. "Just the other day you told me that worrying about stuff like that was useless."

"I know. But apparently it's easier said than done," Derek said, sitting down next to Stiles.

"No shit. Of course it's not fucking easy. Nothing worth anything is fucking easy."

"I don't know how to handle this."

Stiles took pity on Derek, because he sounded so grudgingly lost and upset, and put his hand on top of Derek's.

"Well, for one, talk to me instead of brooding for days on end. It doesn't just affect you when you do that."

"I'm sorry," Derek said, turning his hand to grip at Stiles'. "I know that wasn't fair. I just didn't know what to do."

"Well. Just don't do _that_. For both our sanity and the sanity of this relationship."

"Okay," Derek said, squeezing Stiles' hand briefly.

Stiles took a long inhale followed by a slow exhale, trying to work out what he wanted to say, but coming up short. He tried anyway.

"Derek, I don't know what's going to happen. But I'd rather spend a little while happy with you than miserable and apart. Don't you think?"

"Yeah," Derek agreed, almost immediately, which surprised Stiles a little. "It's still scary."

Stiles laughed a little, not all of it humorously. "We've established that, remember? With neon signs and sky writing."

"I want to keep this," Derek said. "And let the fear go."

"Me too," Stiles said, and looked over at Derek, who was watching him intently.

"Together?" He raised his eyebrows.

"Together," Stiles agreed.

* * *

Things were still less than perfect after that (duh), but the cuddling was still A+, top-notch, yes, please. At the moment, Stiles was laid up against the arm of the couch with a couple of pillows, and Derek had his face smushed against Stiles' tummy with his hands resting on Stiles' hips and the rest of his body fit between Stiles' legs.

Derek's thumbs were stroking his hipbones absently as he… drifted (meditated? Whatever he was doing that wasn't sleeping), and it tickled a little, but Stiles resisted the urge to squirm because he was just too damn comfortable.

He was reading, sort of, kind of half paying attention to the words while he paid more attention to the way that Derek felt pressed up against him, warm and solid, kinda on the heavy side but not really squishing. Stiles felt so ridiculously safe and comforted, and he was shamelessly basking in it.

Good stuff.

Derek shifted forward on his elbows, and Stiles smiled a little, warm and content, unsurprised when Derek pushed the book down to get Stiles' full attention.

"Hey, I was reading that!" Stiles tried to feign irritated, but knew he missed by a mile.

"You really weren't."

"And how would you know?"

"Because you haven't turned the page in ten minutes."

Stiles huffed, but felt himself smile all the same. "Maybe it was a complicated part that I had to pay attention to."

Derek raised an eyebrow. "You're reading fairy tales. Not complicated."

"Fine, busted. I was actually secretly fantasizing about your abs and how I really, really wish you were ticklish so I could torture you a little sometimes."

Stiles was immediately regretting those words with the evil look that Derek trained on him.

"Thinking is as bad as doing, you know," Derek said, smirking.

"Oh my god, that is not true at all. No truth. None. Whatsoever!" Stiles said, trying to squeeze out from under Derek to escape his fate. But Derek grabbed his wrists, pinned them by his head. "Please, Derek, we can work this out, c'mon, be the bigger person and forgive this wretch for his vile thought processes!"

"You know me, do you really think I'll let you go just like that?"

"Yes!" Stiles squeaked as Derek transferred both of his wrists to one hand, starting to squirm as Derek rested his other hand lightly near Stiles' side. "Forgive me father, for I have sinned!"

Derek lifted his hand, let his fingers graze the area while Stiles tried to half-heartedly (but really-kinda-wanted-to) wiggle out of Derek's hold. Derek just leaned forward until his lips were almost touching Stiles', and Stiles held his breath.

"Gotcha," Derek said quietly, and then buried his free hand in Stiles' hair as he went after Stiles' mouth with a deliberate and perfectly executed attack, holy god.

Stiles didn't know whether to laugh in relief/joy at Derek's playful side coming out, roll his hips up and grind his half-hard cock into Derek a little, or smack Derek for teasing him. In the end he settled on a smile with a soft moan and a flick at Derek's ear, who just laughed into their kiss. Derek pulled back a little to kiss along Stiles' neck to the junction of his shoulder, moving down until he could re-smush his face against Stiles' chest much like he had been before he so rudely interrupted Stiles' very important reading.

Stiles started running his fingers through Derek's hair, scratching a little at his scalp every so often, wondering if Derek had ever been able to let go like he just had after everything when he was alive… Or if he'd ever been silly like that ever. He had been so damn angry, and Stiles had a hard time reconciling the Derek that he'd met weeks ago with the one who'd just teased him mercilessly.

"I like it when you get playful like that," Stiles said absently. Derek hummed his agreement, but was quiet. He went still, though, when Stiles asked, "Did you ever do stuff like that before you died?"

It took so long for Derek to answer that Stiles felt like he might have misstepped with that question and triggered something unpleasant for Derek.

Derek's voice was tight when he finally answered, "I used to tease people a lot before the fire. Close friends and family, though sometimes I did it to the unpopular kids in school… That was actually how I got my first real girlfriend. She was one of those kids," Derek said, but trailed off for a moment, and Stiles wondered about the story there. "I only had Laura after that, and she tried to get that old side of me out, but it rarely worked. It was getting better though."

"Well, I'm glad I get to see it. I like it a lot," Stiles said. "Consider me wooed."

Derek lifted his head to give Stiles a look. "'Wooed?'"

"Not that you've been so great about the whole courting thing, but I'm wooed anyway."

"Courting."

"Yes." Stiles nodded, deadpan. "You're really shitty at courting, but I've decided I like you anyway. A little. Kind of. Sometimes."

Derek rolled his eyes. "You're ridiculous."

"You like it."

"Lord knows why," Derek mumbled, resting the side of his face against Stiles again.

"Because I'm simply irresistible!" Stiles sang, the song popping into his head.

Derek groaned, putting one finger against Stiles' lips while his other hand picked up Stiles' book and shoved it in his face.

"Shhh. Read now."

Stiles laughed a little. "Want me to read out loud?"

To Stiles' eternal surprise, Derek nodded.

"Read 'Little Red Riding Hood.' I like that one, it reminds me of my little sister."

Stiles let that reference to Derek's family lie, deciding to just read. He propped open the book of fractured fairy tales on Derek's back, and read it to him in stupid voices, content and pleased to make him laugh. He felt some of the anxiety and tension he'd been carrying around since their fight drain away.

They'd be okay. They really would.

* * *

Stiles had been feeling pretty good… Better than he had in a long time. The darkness was still at the edge of his thoughts, and he definitely wasn't Mr. Sunshine, but he felt happy. Content. Pleasant. At peace. Not like shit.

It was pretty fucking great, actually.

Which was why he was trying not to let Derek's withdrawn mood bother him. Much.

He hadn't gotten Derek to smile all day.

"I believe I can fly. I believe I can touch the sky! I think about it every night and day, spread my wings and fly away!" Stiles sang, kind of purposefully obnoxious, making shadow puppets on the sand of birds as the sun rose behind them.

Derek didn't say anything, which wasn't that unusual, but when Stiles looked over at him, his face was blank instead of exasperated. His jaw was tense, too. So Stiles dropped the silly, and walked over to Derek, hugging him from behind. Derek's hand absently patted his arm, but he didn't lean into Stiles like he normally would, so Stiles let him go.

"What's the matter?" he asked, and Derek seemed to kind of shake awake at that.

"Nothing," Derek said, but when he saw the stink eye Stiles was sending his way, he amended, "I'll tell you in... soon. There's something I want to say."

"O… kay? Well, you know I'm here."

Derek nodded, and Stiles didn't try to touch him again as they watched the sun come up.

"I'm gonna go out front," Derek said, and Stiles shrugged.

"I'll head up soon. I'm gonna put my feet in the water."

He didn't get a response.

He was trying not to wonder too much about what it was Derek wanted to say, because he knew it wouldn't be long until he got to hear it first-hand, but it just bothered the hell out of him when Derek went into his shell for any reason. It made Stiles want to crack it with a hammer and demand that Derek come out, but he knew that was pretty much the opposite of what Derek needed. Seriously.

So he had to be patient, which he could be, sometimes. When it counted. And it definitely counted right then.

He'd just have to wait for Derek to come to him.

Stiles stood in the water for a little while, alternately letting his feet get buried in sand from the tide and then pulling them out to step to a new spot and watch the last one be erased. Weird how transient that was, and weird _er_ how such a stupid thing could remind him that life was transient, and the after-life he was currently in might also be.

Even if he was pretty sure he was gonna be stuck there for the long-haul, sometimes Derek's fears about one of them leaving crept up in Stiles' own head, and he just got this sinking dread feeling that he'd have to shake himself out of.

He refused to let this decent mood get spoiled, so he went up to the house and grabbed the cards, deciding to play solitaire down on the bed-swing while he waited for Derek to get it together or find himself or whatever he was doing.

He'd played several rounds, got bored, and was idly shuffling the cards when he saw Derek walking up out of the corner of his eye.

"Hey," Stiles greeted, setting the cards off to the side. Derek gave him a half-smile, then came around to sit next to him. Stiles got the feeling they were about to have a Serious Conversation, and so set himself up to sit next to Derek, instead of facing him.

"There's something I want to tell you," Derek started, but then seemed to get caught on something. So Stiles reached out a hand and gently stroked the back of Derek's.

"You can tell me," Stiles said quietly.

"I know. It's hard."

"I know it is."

Derek glanced at Stiles, then took a deep breath. He let it out slowly, and then started, "I want to tell you about… Kate."

"Kate?" Stiles asked, though he had a feeling he knew exactly who Kate was.

"She was the one. She set the fire."

Stiles was quiet, and Derek didn't offer anything else. Stiles ended up breaking the silence.

"What happened?"

"I guess I should start… With Paige. But I don't really want to talk about her right now. I guess, just… Paige was my first real girlfriend. First love. I watched her die."

"I'm sorry," Stiles said, and he really, really was. He couldn't believe that there was this, this along with losing his entire family. Stiles had only really fallen in love twice, once with a girl in college, Susannah, who ended up breaking up with him when she went for a masters program across the country, because she couldn't see the rest of her life with him. It had really sucked, to put it gently and succinctly.

The second time, of course, was with Derek.

"Yeah," Derek said. "After Paige, I was kind of lost. I still had friends, was still popular, but I lost something. Then Kate came, and she made me forget."

"She seduced you?"

Stiles looked over at Derek, saw him nod and swallow thickly. "She was beautiful, older, smart, confident. And I was feeling low, and this amazing woman was someone I could love again. And I thought I was in love. But it was sex and emotional abuse. She was insane.

"The reason I can't play Mancala is because we used to play. For sex. Loser would do something the winner wanted. And some of the stuff she wanted made me feel... disgusting." Derek paused again, and Stiles made an encouraging noise. "But she told me that I didn't love her if I wouldn't do it, would ask me why her feelings didn't matter to me. So I did it."

Stiles felt cold, and then suddenly angry at this sick person all over again for not only killing Derek's whole family, but sexually abusing him when he was already vulnerable.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Stiles asked, quiet, and feeling guilty for really not wanting to hear about it, at least not yet. All of this was already making him feel a swarm of intense emotions, and he wasn't sure he could handle hearing the gorey details surrounding the abuse of this person that he loved so fucking much.

"Not now. Maybe not ever," Derek said, with a shake of his head. "But that was always what she'd say: 'If you love me you'll do this,' or 'if you want me to love you you won't do that.' It was always about what she wanted, how she felt, and I thought it was okay because our relationship was 'special' and 'intense.' She would tell me she was sacrificing everything to be with me. That she was willing to go to prison. And I was supposed to show my appreciation by doing whatever she wanted."

Stiles grabbed Derek's hand, wrapped it up tightly in his own. Derek squeezed back, and didn't stop squeezing. Derek's voice was completely dead when he continued, and Stiles thought that was probably so he wouldn't just completely break down while he told the story.

"She wanted to see the house. She asked if we had a basement, wondered about our security system because she wanted to make sure I would always be safe. So I told her about how she didn't have to worry because we lived so far out, and how strong the doors and windows were. She apparently took notes in her head."

"God," Stiles said, when Derek paused. "So she used that stuff against you?"

Derek nodded. "Over the next few weeks she caulked the windows. It was a fluke that I was spending the night with a friend the night she sealed the vents, pumped carbon monoxide into the house, and broke the gas line so it'd leak. Then she set the house on fire. Everyone…"

Derek seemed to break here, covering his eyes with the hand not in Stiles'. His grip on Stiles' hand increased, and Stiles resisted the wince at the feeling of it being slightly crushed.

"Derek, I'm so, so sorry. She was insane… I know you know that, but people that evil, there just isn't really anything you can do."

Derek wiped his hand down his face, and his eyes looked red, even though he wasn't crying.

"The house exploded. No one got out. There was a trial, and she was convicted. They'd gotten her fingerprints from the scene and then when they caught another arsonist, he ratted on her to get some time off his sentence. She claimed insanity, and has been in an institution since."

"I wish they'd just fucking kill her," Stiles said. He was under no illusions that he was a nice person who could easily forgive or forget. Another topic for therapy. "I hate that they bought her insanity schtick."

"She _is_ insane. She thought my family was a pack of werewolves," Derek said, and Stiles suddenly felt angry for him, because it was so fucking unfair, because Stiles knew that Derek knew that this woman wasn't crazy, she was evil. "But I know that she was really twisted, 'insane' or not. She's evil."

Well, it was good that Derek at least knew what a sick person she was.

"She really is," Stiles agreed quietly. They sat in silence, not awkward, but both of them thinking. Stiles broke it with, "Thank you for telling me." He lifted Derek's hand to his mouth and kissed the back of it.

"Yeah. I… wanted you to know."

Stiles smiled a little. "I'm glad," he said, and then climbed over Derek, pushing him down onto the cushion and sliding in behind him. It was still cool enough at mid-morning to cuddle up, and even though temperature wasn't that big of a deal, Stiles sometimes like to pretend that it was so he could feel a little bit alive.

Derek sighed as Stiles looped his arms around his waist, but it sounded content, so Stiles smiled and did all the things he knew comforted Derek; he nuzzled into Derek's neck and planted kisses on the back of it while gently rubbing circles over his ridiculous abs.

It wasn't exactly appropriate, but as he lay there with Derek's warm, beautiful body pressed up against him, Stiles couldn't help but imagine his fingers going lower, thumbing open the button on Derek's jeans, and pushing under his boxer-briefs to find where Derek might be half-hard, waiting…

Stiles purposefully moved his hand up to cover Derek's heart, and moved his hips back slightly so that Derek wouldn't feel his badly-timed interest.

Let it not be said that Stiles wasn't a gentleman, no matter how badly he wanted to get laid.

Thankfully, Derek didn't seem to notice anything, and Stiles searched his mind for a conversation topic, until he noticed that Derek had gone very still, and Stiles knew he was asleep, which they were actually a little overdue for, considering it'd been at least 18 hours since the last time. Stiles settled in, pressed one more kiss to the back of Derek's neck, and let himself slip off as well.

* * *

"Holy shit, you guys actually have Candy Land?"

Derek shrugged. "Families have kids, so we have kid games."

"We've gotta play this," Stiles said, and the box thunked down on the dining room table.

"I'm not playing Candy Land," Derek said, starting to pick the box back up.

Stiles slapped his hand on top of the box, slightly squishing it.

"Surely you've learned by now that once I've decided something, we do it, because you can't resist this face." Stiles cranked up the puppy eyes to 11.

"Surely you've realized that it's actually because you get so fucking annoying that I do it to shut you up."

"Same difference."

Stiles watched as Derek tried not to crack a smile, and the hesitation told him he'd won this battle seconds before Derek parked it in the chair next to him.

"Don't complain," Derek said.

"Why would I complain?"

"You'll see," he said, and Stiles frowned at his know-it-all smirk. Dick.

"Suck it up, fun-buster, and let's do this thing."

Derek raised his eyebrows. "Fun-buster?"

"Shut up, I'm not on my A-game today," Stiles said, all but sticking his tongue out.

He set up the game, shuffled the cards, and drew one. "Fun-busters go second."

Five minutes in, Stiles realized why Derek had told him not to complain. He sighed dramatically and slumped down in the chair. "This isn't as fun as I remember."

"Nostalgia finally wear off?"

Stiles glared over at Derek's smug eyebrows, and pushed himself upright.

"And I feel like the rules are different, somehow. But I also haven't played since I was like 5, so."

"They came out with a new version in 2004," Derek said, and Stiles almost opened his mouth to ask how the fuck Derek knew that, when Derek started again. "We actually have the original at home, the one we grew up with. It was in Laura's car, from where she'd been babysitting. Neither of us wanted to leave it here though."

Stiles looked down, fiddled with his thumbs. He thought about all the shit still sitting at his old house, untouched except for a maid that came by bi-weekly to dust and vacuum. "Yeah, I'd want to hang onto that too."

It was quiet again, one of those times when they just _were_ , existing together in a bubble where sad things were dealt with.

"I didn't know what to do with my Dad's stuff," Stiles blurted, avoiding Derek's eyes. "After he died, and Mom was gone… I didn't have anybody. I didn't know how to cope with going through all the stuff, picking what to get rid of and what to keep," Stiles paused, but forged on, because this was something he'd never talked about. The last time anyone brought it up was when Scott told Stiles he at least needed someone to go and keep the place from getting dusty. That was when he'd hired the maid. "I've only been in my house a couple of times since everything, and that was mostly to deal with all the shit with the funeral. Dad had a lot of friends, people he'd helped, so it was kind of a mad house. Scott and Lydia handled a lot of it. I was kind of, y'know. Gone. Checked-out."

"It's kind of funny how it doesn't work either way; I have almost nothing that holds memories, but you have too much, and neither of us are happy about it."

Stiles looked up, tried to smile, but knew that it was probably coming across as more sad than anything. "I guess that's the way losing people goes. You don't wanna forget, but it hurts too much to remember."

Derek hummed in agreement, and Stiles slowly started to put the game away. The bright colors and thoughts of childhood were just bumming them out at this point. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly after putting the game in the closet. He paused, tracing the letters with his eyes, thinking about his Mom, and letting himself wish, for a second, that he could go back and sit on the floor with this game on the coffee table and relearn lessons about winning and losing.

His breath hitched when he felt hands on his hips, but relaxed immediately and leaned into Derek's warmth.

"Amazing how a kid's game can turn things on their head," he said, and Derek huffed a laugh.

"We're already feeling messed up."

"Yeah," Stiles sighed. He turned in Derek's arms to put his forehead against his shoulder. "All I can hear in my head is what I told you before, about ruminating and remembering, and right now I don't even know which one I'm doing."

Derek's hands stroked gently up and down Stiles' back. "You also told me that it's okay to be sad."

Stiles smiled a little, still hiding his face. He didn't wanna face anything yet. "I guess I did, didn't I? Thanks, Dr. Hirt."

Derek didn't say anything, but backed away, grabbing Stiles' hand. He tugged gently, and Stiles went automatically, with a vague thought that he'd follow Derek anywhere. Which, apparently, was out onto the back deck.

When Stiles looked up, it was to an insane sunset. Oranges, pinks, purples, practically the whole fucking rainbow was splattered and shaded across the thin clouds and clear parts of the sky. The sun was almost below the horizon, so when he looked up, he could see the night sky fading in. Twilight.

"This should be one of Laura's pictures," Stiles said, quiet like he felt the moment should be.

"She's got one like this up on the website. It was luck that she even had her camera on her, but it was even better than this. Almost perfect."

"This seems pretty damn near perfect to me." Stiles gently squeezed Derek's hand. "I wish the sun would set like this more often. Cheers me up, you know?"

"If it did, you wouldn't appreciate it as much," Derek said, and Stiles hummed in agreement.

"Yeah, you're probably right."

Stiles tugged Derek along, and they sat down on one of the outdoor loveseats to watch. The evening was still relatively cool, even though it was getting toward the middle of spring. Or was, when Stiles died - who knew how long it'd been since then.

"How come there haven't been that many renters? With a place like this, I'm surprised it's not booked year-round."

Derek was quiet, long enough that Stiles looked over at him. He kinda regretted bringing up the renters when he saw the look on Derek's face.

Funny how an innocent question could sometimes derail a nice situation.

"Sorry," Derek said, shaking himself out of his brood just as Stiles was about to say something. "It was something Laura and I argued over a lot. This was a family house, somewhere we spent summers and Christmas break. We did rent it out, before the fire, but usually just to friends or people we knew.

"Laura wanted to distance herself from it. I wanted to preserve it. She knew I didn't like the idea of strangers here, so we compromised. I still didn't like it, but I had to give her something. I guess it was our different ways of coping," Derek paused, raising his other hand to rub his neck. "I couldn't shut that down. But I think that now that I'm dead she feels like she has to rent it out less. It keeps getting longer between renters."

"Erasing or preserving memories," Stiles said, thinking back, yet again, on his extensive therapy. "It's not good to erase, but obsessive preserving isn't great either." He thought about his Dad's house, all the things in it. "Compromising was probably good for both of you."

Derek didn't say anything, and it was really starting to get dark. Stiles thought about _Fantasia_ , the part where the goddess brought on night as her cloak. The devil part of the movie scared the shit out of him as a kid, and he laughed a little at the memory. He still didn't like horror, probably scarred for life from a kid's movie. In any case, that was something he didn't know about Derek, and his curiosity was sparked.

"What kind of movies do you like?" Stiles asked.

Derek shrugged. "I read more than I watched movies or TV. I didn't grow up with cable."

Somehow Stiles wasn't surprised.

"So what did you read?"

"A lot of stuff," Derek said, and Stiles could smell the avoidance from 1,000 miles away.

"C'mon dude, what was your favorite geeeeeenre?" Stiles said with an eyebrow waggle, trying to get a smile out of Derek.

Success.

Stiles knew Derek was actively pushing down some negative emotions, and Stiles would do anything to keep that going, to give Derek some room to breathe, maybe even room to be happy despite the conversation they just had.

"Not telling you," Derek said, standing up and pulling Stiles along with him.

"Don't be a douchenozzle!" Stiles whined as obnoxiously as possible. "Was it something embarrassing? Did you read cheesy YA novels?" Derek dropped Stiles' hand and walked backward, smirking.

God, Stiles loved it when he was playful. It was the cutest damn thing in the whole world.

Derek mimed zipped lips.

"Are you serious right now?" Stiles stalked forward, crossing his arms over his chest petulantly. "You suck."

Derek sat on the arm of the couch and raised his eyebrows at Stiles. "Maybe."

Stiles blinked. "What?"

"Maybe I do suck. With the right incentive."

Stiles was suddenly dizzy as all his blood rushed to his face or his dick. His mouth watered, and he swallowed hard.

Okay, it was time to turn on the famous Stilinski Charm.

"And what might that incentive be?" Stiles said, shooting for sly and seductive with a cheeky smirk, but ending up more squeaky and nervous with an obnoxious grin.

"Tell me something," Derek said, and for fuck's sake, how could he be so flirty and seductive while Stiles was bumbling and stupid?

Well, at least maybe he was coming across as Cute Idiot. Which was his own personal sub-brand of Stilinski Charm.

Stiles walked right up into Derek's space, putting his hands on the arms of the couch on either side of Derek's hips. He looked down at Derek's mouth, then back up to his eyes, gazing at him through his lashes. "I'll tell you anything you want."

Derek leaned forward and pecked Stiles gently on the mouth, and pulled back barely a centimeter. Stiles' breath caught.

"I want to know," Derek said, moving to kiss and nuzzle Stiles' neck, "Your most embarrassing childhood memory."

Stiles took a deep breath, trying to get his raging boner to chill out… And then processed what Derek had said.

He reached up and smacked Derek upside the head, and Derek just laughed. Like a full-on, real, huge laugh, and despite his _severe_ sexual frustration Stiles couldn't help but smile before pasting a sad excuse for a frown on his face.

This, _this_ was what Derek deserved, this was how it should be for him. In that moment, he seemed carefree, though Stiles knew that there was still a lot of pain just below the surface. But moments like this were what would end up saving both of them from their own hell holes.

"You're such a jerk, you know that? Leading me on like that, ugh. People on the International Space Station can see my boner right now." Derek just smirked at Stiles, but his eyes were definitely still laughing. "Ha-ha, okay, yuck it up, oh, that Stiles, what a dorkwad."

Derek stood up and spun Stiles, plopping him on the arm of the couch and suddenly kissing the hell out of him.

Stiles melted as Derek nipped at his bottom lip, kissing it gently before turning his attention to Stiles' tongue, sucking it into his mouth for barely a second before he set out to methodically destroy Stiles with his mouth. He kissed across Stiles' jaw to his left ear, somewhere he'd gone only once or twice because he knew how sensitive Stiles was there, and he wasn't cruel enough to always want to get Stiles so riled up when there wasn't gonna be any follow through.

Somehow Stiles had a feeling that tonight, there would be follow through, and he grinned as he gasped and shuddered.

Stiles finally realized that his hands were doing exactly nothing, so he released his death-grip on the couch to reach out and slide his hands up Derek's back under his shirt, and then gently scratch his nails down his back.

Two could play at this game.

Derek shivered against him, and Stiles pressed his hips forward, and yes, there was Derek's massive erection pressed up against his stupidly tight pants.

Derek moved down from his ear to his neck, sucking light bruises, nipping his skin and then soothing his bites with his tongue, and Stiles was gone, gone gone gone.

He pushed Derek back gently, hands still under his shirt, which he pulled up until Derek got the gist of things and took the damn thing off himself. Stiles immediately yanked his own off, but ended up struggling with one elbow until Derek came to the rescue.

"Eager," he said, kissing across Stiles' collarbone now that the shirt was gone, and Stiles put his hands in Derek's hair, pulling the way he knew got Derek a little crazy. When Derek moaned low in his throat, Stiles smirked, and got a sharp bite on his shoulder for his trouble. "Quit being smug. Not sexy."

"Whatever," Stiles said, his breath hitching as Derek rolled one of his nipples between his fingers, "I'm always se-sexy."

Derek hummed and put his mouth to work on Stiles' other nipple.

God, Stiles was so fucking hard, he felt like he would blow his load in 0.2 seconds if Derek ever got around to getting his hands on Stiles' cock. So he pulled Derek's head back up to kiss him, hoping to get a minute to cool off.

Derek attacked his mouth, and this was the definition of a passionate kiss, right here, okay, and Stiles' plan was backfiring so hard, but he was essentially helpless against Derek's lips and tongue. Jesus Mary and Joseph.

Finally Stiles pulled away, breathing hard, and got a good look at Derek, who at least seemed to be as completely destroyed as Stiles. His hair was sticking up wildly from Stiles' fingers, his lips were bright red and swollen, his cheeks flushed and pupils so dilated that his magical-anime-girl eyes were practically gone.

Beautiful. That was the only thing Stiles knew in that moment.

Derek was beautiful.

And then he smiled a little, and Stiles was lost forever, and despite the possible coming-in-pants-like-a-teenager, he went after Derek's mouth again, his hips rolling forward against Derek's of their own accord, stilling only when he felt Derek slip his hands beneath his pajama pants.

And then Derek was kissing down his body with intent, glancing up at Stiles, who had to hold his breath and do long division in his head. He looked up at the ceiling as he felt Derek slide his pj's down, but couldn't help but look back down when he felt Derek grip the base of his dick.

Oh, god.

Derek watched him as he gently took the head of Stiles' cock in his mouth, tightly squeezing him around the base to halt the orgasm that had been ready to go the second his lips touched down.

Stiles groaned and put his hands in Derek's hair, not pushing or pulling, but gripping so that he didn't float away into the sky, and Derek's tongue swirled over the head of his cock before he suddenly sank all the way down, almost taking Stiles' whole cock in his mouth. Stiles cried out, unable to be quiet, and then just, fuck it, no one could hear them anyway, and at this point he didn't really give a shit if Derek thought he sounded ridiculous, so little hitches and "Ah-ah's" and "Oh god's" and "Derek, fuck's" came pouring out of his mouth.

It really wasn't long before his orgasm was impossible to hold off anymore, and when Derek gave a long, pulling suck, Stiles lost it, coming hard, trying desperately not to yank Derek's hair out of his head as he shook and shook and shook in the aftermath. He slid down to the floor, unable to hold himself up, and locked eyes with Derek, who had taken his own cock out at some point and was stroking himself off staring intently at Stiles.

"Derek, Derek, let me-" Stiles said, and made to go after Derek's cock, but before he could even get a hand there, Derek was coming all over Stiles' stomach with a long moan.

Derek leaned forward to kiss Stiles, and Stiles batted Derek's hand away so he could milk Derek's dick in the aftermath of his orgasm, until he stopped him with a muttered, "Sensitive."

Derek slumped into Stiles' shoulder, and their position really was ridiculous, with Stiles' pajama pants still around his ankles, his knees bent and spread as much as possible to let Derek, who was kneeling in front of him with his head against Stiles' shoulder, rest between them. It was only when Stiles' left leg started to twinge that he gently pushed Derek's shoulders up, giving him a kiss before he stood up and pulled up his pants. He offered a hand to Derek, who was still a little wobbly (yes, good), and helped him get his jeans off, leaving his boxers on.

"Next time I'm sucking _your_ brain out through your dick," Stiles declared, throwing himself down against the back of the couch and offering the space in front of him up to Derek.

Derek rolled his eyes as he climbed in front of Stiles and lay down, Stiles throwing his arm over him and squeezing him briefly. "Romantic."

"If you're so romantic, where were my rose petals and scented candles, huh?" Stiles teased.

Derek snorted.

"You're not exactly a blushing virgin."

"Point."

"And you still enjoyed it."

"Another point."

"And I don't exactly have rose petals and scented candles on hand."

Stiles smirked. "So you're saying that you would have rose petal-scented-candle'd me up if you had access?"

"Maybe."

"Awww, I didn't know you were such a romantic!"

"Says the guy who watches shitty rom-coms religiously," Derek said, snarky.

"Shhhh," Stiles shushed, gently twisting one of Derek's nipples. Derek let out a put upon sigh and smacked his hand in retaliation.

"So much for the afterglow."

Stiles grinned as he pressed a kiss to the back of Derek's neck.

"You wouldn't want it any other way."

Derek hummed, and Stiles gave his neck a playful lick. Derek sighed yet again.

"You're right. Unfortunately."

"Aren't I always?"

Derek reached back and clapped a hand against Stiles' mouth to shut him up, they settled into quiet even after Derek released him to kiss Stiles' palm and lace their fingers together.

* * *

Stiles had been kind of on top of the world, after that. Peace out, blackness, it couldn't rain on his parade right now. And if it tried, he would just refuse to let it. Determination.

(Thought it was always in his peripherals. It might always be.)

He was also determined to get Derek's cock in his mouth ASAP.

He had a feeling that Derek wanted his cock in Stiles' mouth, too.

The thing was, Stiles didn't want to push too much too fast. It'd taken them that long to even get to Sexy Time #1, and Stiles wasn't sure what their boundary currently was, or how often Derek liked to have sex, or if Stiles' crazy libido would turn Derek off. Stiles _desperately_ didn't want to be pushy, especially after finding out about Derek's history with sexual abuse just a few days before.

So, even though Stiles was officially horny 24/7, he was waiting on Derek to make a move first.

Although maybe he should broach the subject verbally. Because adults did that. They talked about sex. Hell, he and Derek had talked about sex before.

And it had been embarrassing and excruciating, though undeniably necessary. Ugh.

Okay, so maybe he should just bring it up.

"It's 'would you rather' time," Stiles said, suddenly having an idea that probably wouldn't end up with things being as subtle as he wanted them to be, but hey, it was a start.

Derek let out a long-suffering sigh. "I would tell you, _again_ , how much I hate this game, but you already know and don't listen anyway."

Stiles smiled. "I'm so glad you're learning."

"I reserve the right to ignore you."

"You would never!" Stiles said, mock-offended.

"I do it nearly every time you talk," Derek said, deadpan, but Stiles knew him well enough to see the tiny quirk of the corner of his mouth that gave away the fact that he was teasing.

Stiles really liked that he knew this stuff about Derek.

"Well obviously that just means I need to talk more so that I really get my message through, since apparently you ignore 99% of what I say."

"It's not 99%," Derek said, then looked thoughtful for a second. "It's more like 91%."

Stiles smacked him on the arm.

"Asshole."

"You love it," Derek said with a smirk, and Stiles made a face at him.

"I love _you_ , not your assholishness," Stiles said, leaning back in his chair.

Derek didn't reply, and Stiles wondered if their banter was over, before what he'd just said replayed through his head and he froze.

Oh, god. The three little words. Of doom.

Shit, shit, shit, what would Derek think? Was it too soon? Too much pressure? Did Derek even ever tell people he loved them? What if Derek just liked him, but wasn't so sure about love? How would Stiles handle that? Would he have a meltdown? Would he resent Derek? Would he mope? Would he accept it? What the fuck? Why couldn't his brain stop asking fucking questions?

Holy fuck, this wasn't happening.

Stiles was fighting his breathing picking up, though he could already feel his heart beating faster and his face flushing in the natural adrenaline rush that followed embarrassment, but if he wasn't really, REALLY careful, he might send himself into a panic attack.

Over an "I love you." Jesus.

Stiles had his eyes closed and was focusing on the smell of the salt air when Derek's shadow fell across him. He still didn't open his eyes, hoping that maybe if he couldn't see anything, it meant the ground was swallowing him up and taking him to China to haunt some poor soul's house.

He didn't open his eyes until he felt Derek's lips on his, gentle, but pushing for Stiles to open his mouth so he could deepen it. Stiles let out a little squeak, but kissed back, feeling his heart calm down some even though he still felt uncertain about the whole thing.

Derek pulled back a little, only to move forward and whisper in Stiles' ear.

"Let's go inside."

"Inside?" Stiles squeaked again. Derek just smirked.

"I don't want sand in uncomfortable places," he said, taking one of Stiles' hands and pulling him up.

"Oh, thank god." Stiles scrambled out of his chair and stumbled into Derek, who caught him easily and started pulling him up to the house without pause.

They stopped just outside the door to the house, Derek turning to face Stiles and fixing him with an intense look.

"By the way," he said, and Stiles' eyes were wide, not quite knowing what to expect. Did Derek have some kind of crazy issue with his dick?

"What?" Stiles said, when Derek didn't say anything else.

Derek smiled. "I love you too. Idiot."

Stiles dragged him upstairs.

* * *

They'd tried to undress each other, but neither of them really had the patience for it, so they stripped themselves separately, resolutely ignoring the urgent need to kiss and touch until they were both bare-assed.

It wasn't even awkward, standing there naked and appreciating each other for a second before moving simultaneously to crash together in a swirl of lips and teeth and hands and tongues. It took zero time for Stiles to reach down and find Derek's cock, rock hard with a small bead of precome catching on the head.

Derek was uncut.

This was fucking _awesome_.

But Stiles was also a tease, so instead of going at Derek's cock immediately like Derek obviously wanted him to, he instead pushed him to sit on the edge of the bed so Stiles could kneel between his knees and take him in hand.

He dipped his head and licked gently at the very tip of Derek's cock before taking it into his mouth and swirling his tongue, getting it nice and wet. He started jacking Derek, moving his hand up toward his mouth so he could stroke just around the foreskin while he suckled. Derek's thighs were shaking, and Stiles was feeling pretty goddamn triumphant. He pulled off, took a breath, and went down on Derek, relaxing his throat and taking him all-in.

The big guns were out.

Stiles pulled at Derek's hips back and forth while he bobbed his head, until Derek got the idea and put one of his hands in Stiles' hair, and started thrusting up into Stiles' mouth, just a little, before getting a bit more confident that Stiles could take it. He still wasn't rough, but he was most definitely fucking Stiles' mouth, and Stiles groaned like the horny shameless cockslut he was. He couldn't help reaching down to tug at his own cock, realizing that he wasn't going to get through this without coming himself, just before his orgasm overtook him.

God, he loved sucking cock.

He shuddered through it, and only let up on Derek's cock because he couldn't catch his breath. He pulled off, met Derek's eyes, and brought his other hand up to place his palm against the head of Derek's cock, rubbing circles over the slick head while he continued to stroke along the length of it, and Derek must have been close all along, because he lost it, coming hard in Stiles hands. Stiles stroked him through his orgasm, and then, remembering Derek's sensitivity, went down with his mouth to lick and suck gently at him until Derek was trembling and pushing his head away.

Derek flopped back onto the bed, and Stiles climbed up after him to straddle his waist and lay flat against Derek, chest to chest. He took the time to kiss along Derek's neck, sucking here and there and letting them both catch their breath.

Stiles pulled himself up and looked down at Derek, who was wearing the exact same shit-eating grin that Stiles was. And Stiles absolutely couldn't help himself, leaning down and giving Derek a filthy, messy kiss that Derek 100% returned.

"Leaves ya kinda speechless, don't it?" Stiles said, sitting up on Derek's lap and stroking his hands down Derek's chest. Derek shot him a look.

"You did not just quote _Cats Don't Dance_ in the middle of our afterglow."

Stiles hummed and tweaked one of Derek's nipples, laughing a little when Derek half-heartedly swatted his hand away.

"How do you even know that movie anyway? You said you were a reader."

Derek idly stroked his hands up and down Stiles' hips.

"We had movie nights. Maybe not cable, but definitely movie nights."

Stiles smiled. "That's nice."

"Yeah," Derek agreed, smiling back at Stiles before his expression turned mischievous and he unceremoniously flipped Stiles, who laughed and scooted further up the bed. "Ready? Because I'm not even close to done with you."

"Bring it on."

* * *

They didn't leave the bed for a long time, going at it until they absolutely couldn't anymore, and by that time it was way past dark.

There had been a lot of cuddling, a lot of cock and butt action (though not cock-in-butt action), and Stiles was sated and happy and didn't want to go anywhere but this bed ever, ever, ever again.

Derek was on his belly with an arm flopped over Stiles, who was on his back. Stiles was tracing patterns on Derek's arm, admiring the muscles that he'd thoroughly gotten to know over the last few hours. He could feel Derek watching him, too, and was kind of preening on the inside that Derek thought he was attractive enough to look at him like that, with a focus and intensity Stiles had never felt before. Derek looked the same during sex, all heavy eyes and emotion. It was like fucking romance itself or something equally odd, but it was definitely incredible. Stiles had never felt so - so adored, like he had with Derek.

There were some awkward, nervous-giggle worthy moments in there, but everything had been more than Stiles could have hoped for. They were definitely sexually compatible, which was a huge relationship bonus.

"You have a birthmark," Stiles said, tracing the little blotch with his forefinger. "Here, on your shoulder. It looks like an asterisk."

Derek hummed and Stiles chuckled, but they didn't say anything else. They lapsed into quiet again.

Stiles was on cloud nine. He felt, for the first time, like things were falling into place for him again. Derek had helped him so much, helped him be happy, helped him start to like himself again. He'd inspired feelings in Stiles, guided him through handling the onslaught of emotion by being a stabilizing presence, or reminding Stiles of his therapy so that he could get through it.

But inevitably, something would have to go south. So that was probably why, the next time he woke up, he felt undeniably weird. Like something was really, really wrong.

He found Derek sitting out on the porch, leaning forward with his forearms braced against his thighs, looking lost in thought. He didn't even seem to notice the door opening and closing. Stiles walked to the rail and leaned over it.

"Something's weird," he said, because he might as well not beat around the bush. "I feel like there's something wrong, or something I'm missing. I haven't felt this way since I died. It's like…" Stiles paused, struggling to find the word. "...dread."

"I feel it too," Derek said, and Stiles turned to him, concerned, but trying to play it down a little.

"Think maybe it's just sunspots?"

Derek gave him a look. "Sunspots?"

"Mom used to say that if you were having a weird day, you should blame it on the sunspots. Something about solar flares messing with perception, or something. I dunno."

"I think this might be more than that."

Stiles slumped a little. "I know. But what can we do?"

"Something's going to change," Derek said, standing up and coming over to Stiles, wrapping his arms around him and suddenly squeezing him tight. "What if something happens to you?"

Stiles brought his hands up to stroke up and down Derek's back.

Stiles hesitated. He wanted to reassure Derek, but he also didn't want to lie about the ominous feeling he had. "I don't know for sure what'll happen. And this really might be nothing, you know?"

"It isn't nothing. I just know it isn't." Derek was whispering now, burying his face in Stiles' neck.

"Hey, it's okay. Remember what we said? I'll always find you, and I know you'll always find me. No matter what," Stiles said, and for some reason he felt tears start to well in his eyes, the feeling of dread and some kind of crushing sadness starting to overtake him. "Derek, promise me. Promise me, right now, that you won't give up. Ever."

"I promise," Derek said, and Stiles heard the determination there and felt just a little relieved. "I'll always find you."

They stood, holding tight to that promise and each other, and that was the last thing Stiles knew before he woke up.


	4. Chapter 4

Something was weird.

Stiles felt woozy, disoriented, and when he looked blearily around the room, he realized he didn't know where he was. It almost seemed like a dream, because the last thing he remembered was falling asleep on the couch at the beach house while he watched a movie that he couldn't remember.

When he really started to wake up, he noticed that he was hooked up to an I.V., and it took a minute, but he connected the dots and realized, _hospital_.

What the hell was he doing in a hospital?

He tried to sit up, but it was like he hadn't used his muscles in weeks. He felt so weak, and as he continued to become slowly more conscious, he noticed that his wrists seemed kind of small. Along with his forearms. What was happening?

Just then, a woman in scrubs - a nurse - came into the room. She looked surprised to see him, and Stiles still couldn't shake the feeling that he was dreaming.

She approached him slowly, and in a very gentle voice, said, "Hello, I'm Danielle, and I'm taking care of you. Do you know your name?"

Stiles nodded, and went to speak, but noticed his tongue felt heavy in his mouth. He swallowed, tried again.

"I'm Stiles. Stiles Stilinski."

"Hello Stiles," she said, giving him a smile. "Do you know where you are?"

"Hospital?" Stiles said, making it a question. "But how did I get here? I was at the beach, and I was asleep-"

"We'll answer all your questions soon. But for now, you took a nasty hit to the head, so I'm going to go get your doctor, okay? We'll have a few questions for you when she gets here."

Stiles nodded, which actually did make his fuzzy head throb for a moment, and the nurse left.

He flexed his legs under the thin hospital blanket, and they felt equally as weak. And damn he was cold. He'd have to ask for another warmed blanket or something. Something. Ugh, what was happening?

He hit his head? But when? How? That didn't make any sense at all. He'd been on the couch, and he would have noticed something like a massive head trauma. What the fuck.

Just then the doctor - Dr. Valeria Mendoza, she introduced herself - came in with a clipboard, and the nurse took all his vitals while Dr. Mendoza asked him a bunch of questions. When she was finally done, Stiles figured it was his turn to get some answers.

"How long have I been out, exactly?" he asked, and Dr. Mendoza didn't even glance down at her information.

"You've been unconscious for 5 weeks, to the day," she said softly. "You arrived on March 14th, 2014, and today is April 18th, 2014. We've called Scott McCall, your emergency contact, and he said that he'll be here as soon as he can."

Oh, god. Scott.

"Okay," Stiles said, sort of stupefied and at a total loss for words. Dr. Mendoza nodded, and she and the nurse stepped out of the room.

Scott was coming.

It'd been months since he'd seen Scott. _Months_. It was amazing that Scott was willing to come, after everything, after how fucking horrible Stiles had been to him for all that time after Dad died. Shit.

But then, of course Scott would come. He was _Scott_. He would always come when Stiles needed him. He was just that stupidly loyal, and they had a deep, binding love between them. Stiles knew that no matter how much of a prick he'd been, once Scott heard he'd been hurt, he would have immediately been there.

Stiles suddenly felt like he was about to cry.

Wait just one motherflippin' second.

Stiles… Stiles _felt_? He felt _sad_? He felt relieved. He felt… What the hell, did that hit on the head knock the fucking void out of him?

Stiles thought about anything and everything, and then there was an avalanche of emotions and different thoughts: Lydia sniffing at him when they were assigned partners and then later breaking down on his bed over Jackson; Scott, the kick in the shin and apology snickerdoodle that had started their friendship; Susannah breaking his heart; how he felt when she'd said yes to their first date; the excitement when he lost his virginity and the sadness and insecurity that came when she'd never called him again; wanting to kick Scott in the nuts for eating the pizza Stiles had been saving; inside jokes between Boyd and Erica like the thing with the sleeping bag; how Erica teased him like crazy about his awkward social skills every time he bombed asking people on dates; things that had embarrassed him in high school like the time Jackson pantsed him in front of the girl's track team. And he felt, felt everything that came with the memories, good and bad, happy, angry, embarrassing, sad, elated, nervous… Fucking hell.

This was nuts. Jesus christ, Dr. Hirt was going to have a goddamn field day. This was a freaking miracle if Stiles had ever seen one.

His heart rate had been steadily rising, and he tried really hard not to pay attention to the beeps, because it was gonna drive him absolutely insane and possibly cause a freak out in the wake of all the feelings. He noticed absently that he was crying, not hard, but just tears rolling down his face.

And suddenly, despite everything that he was getting _back_ , he felt overwhelmingly like he'd lost something, or forgotten something. Something really, really important.

And he felt really tired, the cloudiness filling his head again, but he also realized that he was freaking starving, something he hadn't noticed when he'd first woken up, or even when he'd been a little more clear-headed.

As luck would have it, someone wheeled in a food tray just as he was thinking of how to go about getting food (especially since he wasn't sure he could walk at all). But even perking up over food didn't eliminate the strange sadness that he felt… It felt almost like it was someone else's sadness.

He at the bland food mindlessly after thanking the employee (whatever people who brought food in hospitals were called), but slowly, because his stomach couldn't really handle much. No wonder the food was so tasteless. And kind of revolting, texture-wise.

The guy who brought his food also handed him the remote, and Stiles flipped on the TV for some background noise before trying (and failing) to make his way to the bathroom. He ended up having to call the nurse for help. Damn, he was so, so weak. His muscles must have deteriorated while he was out. This was freaking ridiculous.

After some embarrassment and finangling, he got there. And after probably the biggest dump of his life, he made it back to the room, exhausted. He wasn't sure if he should sleep, but the doc hadn't said anything about it, so he relaxed back against the bed and watched _Golden Girls_ until he started to drift.

* * *

He woke up a while later to someone coming in the room. Well, two someones. A different nurse than his first one, and-

Scott.

Scott, whose face was a mix of shock and relief, and even a little happiness, which, shit, had Stiles immediately on guilt train express. But even if he was on that train, he still felt a wash of affection at seeing his best friend, and couldn't help but smile tentatively.

"Stiles!" Scott squawked, and Stiles laughed a little. Scott's eyes widened, and his jaw dropped before he sputtered, "Holy shit, that's an actual smile!"

Stiles shrugged, feeling himself start to full-on grin, "I've been doing a lot of therapy. Or had been. Don't get me wrong, I still will be, but. Surprise?"

"Dude, you get two seconds warning, I'm about to hug the hell out of you."

Stiles felt a giddiness well up in him as Scott jumped forward and, true to his word, hugged the hell out of him. Stiles hugged him back as hard as he could.

"I'm still mad at you," Scott said when he pulled away.

"Good. You really should be."

Scott gave him his lopsided, crooked-jaw smile, and pulled the chair up to Stiles' bed, where he sat back heavily.

"Sorry dude, it's like 1:00 in the morning and I worked all day. I'm pooped. I've only got a little bit of that adrenaline rush left that I got from hearing you woke up left. That drive sucks."

"Yeah, four hours is a doozy," Stiles said, and Scott let his head drop backward.

"No joke," he said, working his neck in a circle to get the kinks out. "We thought about moving you back, but this hospital is waaaaay better than the one back home. Ritzy town. The bad part was that we couldn't really come to visit you much."

Scott looked sheepish and a little guilty. Stiles waved a hand at him.

"Dude, don't worry about it. You did the best you could. I'm just… glad you came."

Scott gave him a look. "Of course I did. Stiles, you're still my brother. Even if you are a grade-A asshole sometimes."

"Speaking of my assholery-" Stiles started, but Scott was quick to interrupt him.

"We'll have to do the big apology and explanation later; I'm barely functioning right now. So if we could just talk for a little while?"

"Sure," Stiles said. "I wasn't really sure if I was up for it, either. Mostly I just wanted to say I was sorry in the short form, and then get down on my knees and grovel when I can get out of this damn bed by myself."

Scott smiled, then looked more serious. "You're looking pretty rough, dude. Are you gonna have to do physical therapy?"

"My guess is yeah. I'm so weak, man. Remember when you had the flu for two weeks in like 2nd grade, and you couldn't really move? That's me right now, maybe a little worse. So much for my ripped muscles," Stiles joked, and Scott smiled again.

"Right, because you were totally rockin' it before."

They both chose to ignore the fact that Stiles had been wasting away the last time Scott saw him. He was worse now, but he'd lost a lot of weight before he started up therapy again. A diet of booze and adderall did that to a guy.

"You were always jealous of my physique. I'm a prime specimen of the human male."

Scott snorted, but was still grinning. "Right."

"Al-ways," Stiles said, sing-song.

Scott shook his head. "I really can't tell you how awesome it is to see you like this. You're… laughing, joking, and, well, not mean. It's like I've finally gotten my friend back."

"It's kind of crazy, to be honest. It was like everything came crashing down all at once, and it was all just _there_. It was gone before, but now it's back. Not totally, but I feel a lot better. I _know_ I'm better. I've still got a long way to go in therapy, don't get me wrong, but I feel like I'm free, weird as it sounds."

"Doesn't sound weird at all," Scott said. "Because you are. You were seriously depressed, and that's like a cage; you were trapped."

"True," Stiles said. He playfully narrowed his eyes at Scott. "And did you do research about my assholishness?"

"Duh. You would have done the same."

"Also true," Stiles said, and god, it was so good to just sit with Scott without this overhanging feeling of unworthiness, or wanting to be left alone. There was guilt, definitely, but Scott wanted to be around him, and he wanted to be around Scott, and right then, that was good enough for Stiles. "So how's life? I've been a little out of the loop."

"Uh, yeah you have. Man, where do I even start?" Scott said, thoughtful. "I guess… Kira? I met her a little after you left, and she helped me get through some stuff." It was unspoken that Stiles was the stuff Scott was going through. "She's really awesome, and so pretty. I think you'd really like her. She's kind of awkward, like you."

"Thanks."

"You're welcome."

"So how'd you meet her?" Stiles asked, and Stiles got the Stupid Love Grin and the Hearts in Eyes look.

This was serious business.

"You know Erica and art history," Scott said, and Stiles hummed in agreement. He continued, "A museum opened up about an hour away, and when Boyd couldn't get off work for the opening, she dragged me along. Kira works there, and she was answering questions people had about the art and stuff, but she was really nervous. She tripped in her heels when she was rushing over to something Erica asked about and ended up rolling her ankle. I took her to the hospital, and we talked, and she was just… perfect. Apparently she never really wears heels." Scott laughed, and Stiles smiled at him, but couldn't help the eye-roll, either.

Love at first sight and Scott. So typical... It was just like Allison, which Stiles was absolutely not going to point out, because even though it was a long time ago, Scott still got that sad look when she was brought up. It was still hard on all of them, Stiles included. Lydia liked to talk about her to help cope, but Scott wasn't great with reliving memories.

"I'm happy for you, man. I really am."

"Thanks. I'm pretty happy too."

That weird sadness was settling over Stiles again, and it felt like there was something significant right at the tip of his mind, that he was just missing. But he had no clue of what it could possibly be.

He shook himself out of it.

"So how's Lydia? Erica and Boyd?"

"That reminds me! You're supposed to call Lydia as soon as you can. She's coming Sunday to bring you some of your stuff. I kinda blew out of town before I thought to grab anything."

Stiles groaned, but couldn't help smiling. Lydia. "I'm not ready for that conversation."

Scott laughed at him, the jerk.

"I think you're just gonna have to suck it up for this one. She was so calm when I called her that I can't even warn you whether or not she's gonna yell at you or just passive aggressively make your life a living hell."

"Ugh. Probably both," Stiles grumped.

"Probably," Scott agreed.

But still, even if it was just to get an earful, he couldn't wait to talk to Lydia. He wanted to thank her, because she was the one that had given him the final push to take the one step necessary to help himself.

He owed her a lot.

"So, did Erica and Boyd get married?"

Scott blew out a long breath. "In a nutshell, yes. There was a minor meltdown when Erica's asshole dad showed up at their house and yelled about her marrying a black dude - she and Boyd had to get a restraining order - and then she got in a big fight with Boyd's grandma because Erica wanted to wear _her_ grandma's diamond necklace, but Mrs. Boyd had wanted to give Erica _her_ diamond. In the end, Boyd had his grandma's diamond fitted into Erica's wedding ring, so everybody won. But trust me when I say it was a lot worse than it sounds."

"Dude, I know Mrs. Boyd, I can definitely picture that disaster," Stiles said, letting out a little laugh.

"We've got a lot to catch you up on, but I'm about to pass out in this chair," Scott said, standing up. "I've got a hotel room here until Sunday, so I'll come by tomorrow after I get up."

Stiles was sad to see him go. "Alright man, I'll see you then."

"Stiles," Scott said, pausing at the door to turn back and look at him. "I'm proud of you. And I'm really happy to see you like this."

Stiles raised his eyebrows at him and gestured down his body, "Dunno if you should be."

Scott laughed, "Shut up, you know what I mean. I'm happy for you. I'm happy that you're able to be happy again."

"Thanks, man. Me, too."

Scott smiled, nodded, and walked out.

Stiles was so, so tired. And he couldn't shake that underlying sadness, the one that felt alien. He knew sadness, knew depression, but he didn't know this. It was like a feeling from another lifetime, like he was missing someone that he'd never known.

So weird.

Stiles settled back into his pillows and turned out the bedside light.

Maybe the feeling would be gone when he woke up.

* * *

"Dr. Martin speaking."

Stiles smiled into the hospital phone. "Hey Lydia, it's Stiles."

It was quiet for a moment. "Give me one second," she said, and Stiles heard a muffled, "Go away, Jackson," who answered, "why?" to which Lydia said, "because you'll play smug jealous husband and I am not in the mood to deal with it."

Some grumbling down the line.

"Sorry about that," Lydia started, and Stiles wondered if maybe he'd get off easy. But then her tone went ice cold. "You motherfucker."

Stiles pulled the phone away from his ear, blinked at it, then said, "What?"

"Stiles Stilinski, you do not get to scare me like that. Ever. And I'm only saying this because Scott says you're you again: I know depression isn't your fault, but I am so, so pissed at you. I reserve the right to hit you where it hurts, _hard_ , at least once. More if I decide to, and at any time. And you don't get to almost die on me - mentally, emotionally, or physically - _ever_. Are we clear?"

Stiles laughed, "Crystal."

The line went quiet again for a moment.

"I'm glad you can laugh," Lydia said, soft like she hardly ever was. "I'm glad you're okay."

"Me too, Lyds. Me too."

A sigh. "I'm never going to give up trying to break you of that nickname."

"And I'm never going to stop using it," Stiles shot back, smiling. "Listen, I wanted to tell you something."

"What?"

Stiles paused for a moment, and then quietly said, "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Lydia said, and Stiles was surprised for a minute, wondering how she could have known, when she continued, "I understand how grateful you are for my presence in your life. Now, what, specifically, are you thanking me for?"

Stiles laughed again. "I see your ego hasn't gone anywhere."

"I don't have an ego, I have high self-esteem and you are an asshole who is lucky to have me."

"You went to therapy, didn't you?"

Lydia snorted at him, something she only did when she didn't give a shit anymore. "Of course I did. I lost my best friend. Again."

She was very matter-of-fact about it, and Stiles felt so damn guilty.

"I'm sorry," Stiles said.

"You're forgiven. But never again, Stiles. You don't get to shut us all out."

"I won't."

Lydia sighed. "So, you were thanking me?"

"Yeah," Stiles said, then took a moment to get his words together. "It was what you said that made me get off my ass and try to get better. You told me… You said that you couldn't help me if I didn't want to be helped. That made me realize that I did want help. I just couldn't bring myself to ask you guys because of how I'd been. I was ashamed."

"I know you were," she said. "We all knew you were just trying to push us away."

"I was. And after you said that, I hit rock bottom and I… I wanted to die. But I couldn't do it, so I checked into a hospital. I couldn't even make myself leave the house, so I called 911 to come get me, because I was right on the brink of really doing it, and I knew that even if I tried to before they came, they'd find me and pump my stomach."

"Stiles-"

"But it was you," he interrupted, fighting past the lump in his throat. "It was what you said, because I did want help. Somewhere in me, I wanted out, but I didn't want to do it by dying. So I did the only thing I could."

Lydia was quiet for a long time, and Stiles waited for her to say something, gave her time to process everything he'd just said.

"I wouldn't trade all those years of you never listening to me for anything if it meant you listened to me then," she said, soft once again.

Stiles smiled. "Thanks for being my friend, Lyds."

"Always, Biles," she replied. Stiles huffed a laugh.

Fucking Jackson telling her that stupid name.

"Love you," he said quietly.

"I love you too. I'll see you Sunday."

"See you."

* * *

Scott came back around noon, a few hours after Stiles had hung up with Lydia. He came bearing curly fries, which Stiles probably wasn't supposed to have, but of course ate anyway. He couldn't actually eat that much though; his stomach must have still been all shrunk up from just having the feeding tube for so long.

They'd joked some, bantered back and forth, and Scott updated him a little more on what had been going on. It was just minor stuff, but it felt a world away to Stiles. He'd missed a lot.

Too much.

It was kind of awful to hear about everything, from Lydia's spat with Jackson (it was implied that it was in part over Stiles) that ended up leading to individual therapy for Lydia. She'd kind of needed it for a while because of the damage between her and Jackson; even though they worked hard on their relationship, there was still some stuff that she couldn't quite let go of. Stiles was kind of relieved to hear it, even though he grumbled (for show) at Lydia and Jackson working things out. Even if it was Jackson, he just wanted Lydia to be happy, and he knew that Jackson really wanted the same thing.

He got the full story of Erica's wedding meltdown, an update on Boyd passing the bar exam, along with a half-abbreviated history on all things Kira.

Stiles felt vaguely sad at everything he'd missed, because he knew that he didn't have anyone to blame but himself. Even though it was his depression talking and acting, all of that was still part of him. So he couldn't just throw blame at depression by itself even though he wanted to. He did know that it wasn't all his fault, at the heart of it, but that didn't change the fact that he'd still said and done what he had.

The conversation trailed off, and they sat in easy silence, half-watching cartoons. Stiles bit his lip and took a quiet breath, figuring now was as good a time as any.

"Hey, Scott," he started, waiting until Scott turned his full attention on him.

"What's up?"

"I just… I wanted to tell you that I'm sorry," Stiles said, and held up a hand when he saw Scott open his mouth. "Let me do this, I've gotta get this off my chest." He took a shaky breath, ran a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry for everything that I did, for the things I said. I know I was really out of line, and that's putting it really frickin' mildly. I mean I - I told you some really fucked up shit, threw things like your dad leaving in your face, and literally throwing objects that really could have done some damage," Stiles stopped there, trying to stop feeling so horrifically guilty for long enough to just freaking apologize. "Not exactly BFF material, if you ask me. If you ever want to just punch me in the face, please feel free. I know you did everything you could possible do to help me, right up til the very end, when I finally shut down on you. And I'm just… I'm sorry. You're my brother, and you always will be, even though I definitely didn't treat you like it."

Scott's face was serious as he glanced away from Stiles and let out a small sigh. Stiles honestly expected the worst from him, even though he knew that Scott would ultimately forgive him at least a little, because they were Scott and Stiles, and that was what they did. Stiles felt like some of the things he'd done were unforgivable - some of the emotional and physical abuse he'd put Scott through shocked even Stiles - and maybe there was some stuff that Scott wouldn't really be able to let go. Even still, Stiles hoped they could at least try to rebuild their friendship.

"You were an asshole, but dude, I forgave you for all that while it was still happening," Scott said, and his eyes were so damn earnest, it was killing Stiles. "I know you feel bad, and I knew that you felt bad about everything even back then. I get it. I hate that it happened, but it's okay. I'm just… I'm glad I got my friend back."

Scott smiled, and Stiles felt his eyes water. He was so damn weepy lately. Still, he smiled back.

"I know I've got a lot to make up for. I'll try not to be annoying about it, but you know how I get. And at least you love my cookies. Prepare to be showered with them."

"You're just trying to make me fat."

And just like that they were back to Scott and Stiles. There was definitely still shit between them, but at that point Stiles knew they could get back to being best friends again.

Stiles swore to himself that he'd never put Scott through anything like that ever again.

"I just want to get some meat on those bones," Stiles scoffed, folding his arms.

Scott lifted his shirt, and there was the six-pack that Stiles had envied since high school.

"Nothing can break these abs, dude, not even your snickerdoodles."

"One day, McCall. One day, when you're forty, you'll be fat. And I will crow in victory."

"I don't know what kind of victory that'll be, because you'll be fat too," Scott said, smirking his half-smirk through a smile. "You could really stand to get fat right now though."

Stiles grimaced. "Dude, I know. I'm a freakin' skeleton. My doctor says I'm _definitely_ gonna need physical therapy, and recommended that I stay monitored here for a little while before I head home."

"How long will you be stuck here?"

"They don't really know yet. But I'm hoping it won't be too long. Just because I've been staying in one place the last few months doesn't mean I'm not ready to see the world again," Stiles said, gesturing at the window. The sun was shining brightly, the sky was blue, there were flowers and shit everywhere.

"Whenever you're ready," Scott said. "It'll be good to see you get out of your apartment."

"Yeah," Stiles agreed. "I was working up to it before the whole head-knock thing. I've got big plans to keep going."

Maybe he could take another visit to the beach house, really explore the little town. Go out to eat some places, take a cheesy tour.

Somehow he felt like that house was somewhere that he really needed to be, somewhere that had done him some good.

Even if he had ended up falling down the damn stairs.

"Just promise me one thing, Stiles," Scott said seriously, breaking Stiles out of his thoughts.

"What?"

"Don't shut me out again. If you need help, ask me. I can't deal with it if you do it again," Scott said, and he looked fragile but stern. Stiles felt nauseated with guilt

"I swear. It won't ever happen like that again. Ever."

Scott smiled, a little shaky, but genuine. "Good."

* * *

Lydia showed up Sunday bearing gifts like an angel sent from heaven. She had a messenger back with his laptop and phone, and a suitcase full of clothes that was mostly comfortable pajama pants and t-shirts. His flip-flops and a pair of sneakers.

Bless her.

"I'm surprised you didn't bring Jackson to carry all that shit for you."

Still, Stiles was unsurprised to see her gracefully hauling all of it herself while wearing her standard ridiculously high heels.

"He was acting stupid," she said, handing Stiles the messenger bag as he scooted to sit on the edge of the bed. "He couldn't decide if he was relieved or mad, and I knew he'd just make things worse for everyone involved. So at home he stays."

He decided to ask about that later. He knew that he'd always been kind of a source of tension between Lydia and Jackson because of Jackson's jealousy, but Stiles couldn't help that he'd been there all those years Jackson hadn't been. It wasn't his fault that Jackson was insecure, and even though Stiles knew he'd been in therapy himself for a long time to get over those insecurities, there was still some resentment between them. Stiles hated how he'd treated Lydia, and Jackson hated how close they were.

In any case, Stiles didn't want to talk about Jackson.

"What'd you have to bribe him with to convince him."

Lydia gave him a sarcastic smile. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

Ugh. "No, I really wouldn't."

Lydia's gaze softened, and she sat down in the chair next to the bed.

"Scott was right. This is incredible."

Stiles smiled. "It really is. I don't know how exactly it happened, but I feel a lot better than I did pre-coma. Maybe not perfect, but hey."

"Well, you've got a long way to go," Lydia said, not meanly. "I know it's not easy."

"Nothing worth it ever is."

Stiles was having a strange sense of deja vu, and it was quiet for a moment between them.

"Stiles," she started, and Stiles wasn't really sure if he wanted to hear what was next. "I know you're probably sensitive right now. But you need to know that we're hurting too, and have been hurting with you all along."

Shame and guilt washed over Stiles. "I'm sorry."

"I know you are. And I want you to know that I forgive you, and that I'm glad you're on your way to being healthy again. But the point that I'm making is that you need to let us help you this time. You're worth it."

She was direct like she always was when it came down to the things that mattered, cutting to the chase with no sugar-coating, and it was one of the things Stiles appreciated most about her, even if it was sometimes hard to handle.

"Self-worth is a work in progress," Stiles joked feebly. "But I'm really busting my ass toward it."

"You better be," she said, sitting back and propping her feet up on the bed. "You can start making everything up to me with a foot rub. I was on my feet all Friday for a presentation, and then in the lab yesterday for an emergency after I went to lunch with Mrs. Sophie."

"I keep telling you to get a pair of sneakers to keep in the office."

Lydia gave him the stink eye, even as he started up on her left foot.

"Shut up and rub."

"Yes, your majesty."

"Now that's more like it."

As Stiles took care of her (as much as he could with his weak hands), she talked. About her frustrations with the imbeciles at work, about how annoyingly disgusting Scott and Kira were, despite how happy she was for Scott, about therapy and how she wished she'd been going since Allison died and Jackson moved. Stiles hummed at her and jokingly said he wished she had, too, and she kicked him.

They sat and talked for a long time, and then watched one of Stiles' many rom-coms he had on his computer. Lydia left a little after dinner, and Stiles was comforted by the scent of her perfume when she hugged him goodbye in her carefully affectionate way.

Stiles lay there and fiddled around on his phone, checking the messages that he'd gotten from a handful of people after his accident. There were ones wishing him better, and some from his closer friends that felt like they were more grieving than hoping as they got closer and closer to the present.

It made Stiles happy and sad, and the out-of-body sadness came creeping back over him again. He idly wondered if there was anything he could do about it, or if was really just his own black cloud of sad overhanging him but unable to reach him all the way.

Eh, he'd bring it up in therapy.

* * *

A week later, Stiles was being released from the hospital with a prescription for physical therapy. He could either go home and do it, or stay in town where he already was and do it there. He wasn't really sure what he wanted to do, but it seemed kind of stupid to spend the extra money to stay where he was rather than just go home, so he'd ended up deciding to just go home.

He still felt weak, but he'd been getting some PT while he was at the hospital, so he was a little better. He could walk on his own, at least. He was leaving his room to head to the lobby with his stuff when something made him pause and look across the hall at the ajar door of room 8014.

It was a strange sensation, but he felt a pull to the room. It was like the feeling he would get when he'd forget why he came into a room; like he was forgetting why he needed to go into this room.

He turned to the door, stared at it hard for a moment, contemplating whether or not to take a peek. Just as he was reaching for the knob, a dark-haired woman opened the door fully. Stiles recognized her immediately, but wasn't really sure how he knew her… Just that he did.

Her name was Laura.

He knew he was staring, but he couldn't help it. She looked at him, questioning, and Stiles shook himself out of it, saying quickly, "Excuse me," and turning to go. But he stopped, turned back, and asked, "Have we ever met before?"

She smiled at him, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "No, I don't think so. But a lot of people say I look familiar. One of those faces, I suppose."

Stiles idly wondered why she didn't think it was weird that he'd been hovering right outside the door of her room, but she also seemed pretty distracted.

"I'm sorry, but I have to get to an appointment," she said. "Have a nice day." And with a smile, she walked away.

Stiles watched until she rounded the corner, then turned back to the door.

He just really needed to look, see what was in the room. Or who? He felt like there was something he needed to see, and that it was in there. It was a crazy feeling, and he wanted to give into it to prove to himself that there wasn't really anything or anyone of note behind the door.

But then how had he known who that woman was? She didn't know him, but he absolutely knew that he'd seen her before, that he knew her name.

Laura… Who was she?

Stiles took a breath, pulled the messenger bag strap more securely across his shoulder, and opened the door.

When he saw him, he _knew_ , and he absolutely wasn't prepared for the onslaught of longing and sadness and feelings of loss that hit him as he took in the figure lying on the bed. He looked smaller, more wasted, but Stiles would know that face in any shape at any time.

Derek.

And with that name came a fucking avalanche of memories, of intimate moments and fights and sex and the sun and the swing and their bed, their bed in their house, where they'd thought they'd been dead together, where they thought they'd be together always until those final moments before they even got to say goodbye.

Stiles' breath felt crushed out of his lungs as he walked robotically forward, and then almost fell to his knees at Derek's bedside. God, even looking so small and weak, he was beautiful. Stiles missed him, and the ache that started deep in his gut erupted behind his eyes, and there were tears, so many tears. He was gasping for breath, not quite sobbing because he couldn't tear his eyes away from Derek, but he was crying steadily and sniffling and choking.

He was almost afraid to touch him, because he seemed so fragile lying there, hooked up to machines and an IV, but in the end he couldn't help himself, reaching out to trace Derek's brow and down to touch his cheek. An insane, desperate hope hit him that Derek would wake up, that his touch would be magic and Derek would open his eyes, see Stiles, and they'd get their happy-ever-after.

Stiles wiped at the tears on his face, and ended up with snot on his sleeve, but he couldn't give any shits about that when all of this emotion was hitting him out of nowhere.

It was only then that it occurred to Stiles how insane this was.

Here he was having a nervous breakdown over a man that he was convinced he'd fallen in love with while they haunted a beach house because they both thought that they were dead? What kind of crazy shit was that? But if it wasn't real, then what was it? A dream? Some kind of coma-induced fantasy?

But there was so much to it, it was so detailed and there was everything, all of the banter and the jokes and the hateful words at first, the way that their "dead-world" worked, Laura's breakdown and the subsequent truce they'd formed, the way that Derek had felt under his hands when they'd cuddled or when he was tracing patterns down Derek's body when they had sex.

A thought popped into Stiles head as he stood there, looking at Derek and crying - Derek's birthmark. The little asterisk looking thing that he'd seen on the front of Derek's right shoulder. Stiles immediately moved to look, but as he was reaching for Derek's nightgown, he suddenly felt like an insane, creepy idiot.

What the hell was he doing, about to strip some poor stranger in a coma just to confirm a crazy dream he'd had while he was passed the fuck out? This was nuts, not to mention stupid… He was probably having some leftover mental issues from the hit he'd taken. Or something. Anything seemed more plausible than him having haunted a beach house with this dude. What the fuck, Stiles?

Still, he wanted to be sure. He wanted to check, to see if he really was crazy, or if it was even possible. So he reached out, ready to carefully turn Derek so he could look at the back of his shoulder.

But just as he touched him, an older woman came in the room with an acoustic guitar. Stiles immediately wiped his face, tried to get himself together.

"Oh, I'm sorry honey," she said. "I'll give you some privacy." And with that, she walked back out the door.

Stiles looked back down at Derek, once again questioning his own sanity.

Still, he was gently pulling Derek's shoulder up and his hospital garb to the side, and sure enough, there was the birthmark.

Stiles nearly dropped Derek back to the bed, but managed at the last second to catch himself long enough to ease Derek back down. Still, he was shocked, didn't quite know how to handle what he'd just seen, or what to do about it. All he could do was stare down at Derek, his tears drying up in the wake of his surprise, and a strange hope blossoming in his chest.

"Derek? Can you hear me?" Stiles' voice was shaky, but there was no response. "Because if you can, I need you to wake up, okay? Can you do that for me?"

Still nothing. And Stiles realized that the hope was just a pipe dream.

Because Derek was unconscious, and had been for a long time. Longer than Stiles.

And from the little research Stiles had done in the hours he'd been at the hospital, Derek was probably in a persistent vegetative state. And that prognosis was poor.

Stiles started feeling desperate.

"Come on, Derek," he said quietly, and his throat felt dry and sticky. "I woke up! It's your turn! It's your… It's your fucking-" Stiles heaved a breath, grabbing Derek's hand and squeezing tight, feeling like he was going to start sobbing at any minute. "You said - we promised - please, please, wake up, please…"

He almost started crying again, because he was coming to the realisation that even though the memories he had of Derek might actually be real, and not a dream, Derek himself was deep in a coma, or in PVS, and he might not ever wake up.

Just then, Stiles' phone rang. He barely heard it, but through the pain swimming in his chest, he remembered that Scott was picking him up from the hospital. Because that's where he was, he was in the hospital. And he was going home, leaving Derek here, not knowing if he'd ever see him again.

No. No, that couldn't happen.

Stiles answered the phone, tried to sound normal.

"Hey, are you here?"

"Yeah," Scott answered. "I waited downstairs for like ten minutes after you texted that you were on your way down, but when I went up to your room, you were gone already. Where are you?"

"Sorry, I got sidetracked. Um, give me five minutes and I'll be you downstairs, okay?"

Scott was quiet for a moment. "Dude, is everything okay?"

"Yeah," Stiles sighed. "I'm just… There was an emotional stressor on me. I saw something kind of triggering. I'll tell you about it later, I don't want to talk about it now."

"As long as you'll talk about it. I'm glad you told me. I don't want you to pretend."

"I know, buddy. I won't. I'll see you in five."

"See you."

They hung up, and Stiles tried desperately to think of what to do, how he might be able to get some answers about all of this. He went to the bathroom and blew his nose for real with the shitty hospital tissues, and then went back in to take a last look at Derek. He knew he'd be back, but he had to think first.

He walked over and kissed Derek's forehead, pushing back the long bangs that weren't styled up like they had been at the house.

"Find me," he whispered, and with that, he left the room.

The guitar player was waiting a few feet outside, probably to give Stiles more privacy. Stiles nodded at her and went to walk by, but she stopped him.

"I'm glad one of Derek's friends came to visit him," she said. "I'm guessing you hadn't seen him yet?"

"No, I hadn't."

"I know it's hard," she sighed. "His sister called our service up a few weeks ago and asked if we'd come play for him. She requested classic rock, so here I am." Stiles was starting to understand that this woman was just very chatty. "Normally we only get called when people are already dying or are on into PVS - that is, persistent vegetative state - but from what I gather from her, he's just still in a coma, which is much better."

"That's good," Stiles said, trying not to sound like the disaster he felt like he was on the inside.

"Sure is. I'm betting he'll wake up any day. Don't you fret, sweety, you're too young and handsome to worry so much." She patted him on the shoulder and walked into the room.

Stiles felt a little weirded out by her, even though he was glad for the info she'd just given him.

He didn't want to hope. Hope got him in trouble. But he also knew that he couldn't live without hope, and that hope was important to therapy and improvement, and god, his thoughts were a mess. But in the end, he did have hope, because Derek…

Derek would always find him.

* * *

The first thing Stiles did when he got home was make an appointment with Dr. Hirt for ASAP.

The second thing he did was look up the website for the beach house again to dig up all the information he could on Laura and Derek. He'd gotten stuck when he realized he didn't even know Derek's last name, which seemed ridiculous after all that time they'd spent together, before he realized that at least Laura's last name would be up on the site.

So now he knew. Derek and Laura Hale. Fucking hell.

He was almost afraid to do it, but of course he would, because he could never keep his goddamn curiosity on a leash. So he googled them together along with "Kate," and immediately got the hit for an article on the fire and the subsequent trial.

It was fucking horrible. Stiles could barely look at the picture of the burned-out shell of house, but even worse than that was the picture of Kate smiling for the cameras like a goddamn model as she walked into the courthouse building behind her lawyers. She was still smiling when she came back out, her insanity plea having gone through.

Jesus christ.

Then there were the obituaries, all the pictures of Derek's family. And there were children on the list, as well as aunts and uncles: Derek's little brothers, Nathan and Will (Listed as Nathaniel and William), just 8 and 10, respectively; his sister, Cora, 13; an Uncle Peter, his wife Rosa and their daughter, Malia, who was 12; Derek's parents, Talia and Wyatt; another Aunt and Uncle, Sara and Alek, and their twins, Christa and Calera. The twins were just babies, barely two years old.

Stiles felt sick.

He shut his laptop and put his head in his hands. Fuck, that was… God. His loathing for Kate _Argent_ had no bounds now. He wondered if she was connected somehow to Allison, but Allison had never mentioned a psycho aunt, and she wasn't around anymore to ask. But if Stiles had Kate for a relation, he wouldn't want to advertise it, either.

Kate was the most vile kind of person, some kind of psychopath that didn't even understand what it meant to be human and absolutely couldn't relate to other people because of it. It was so - so, just - disgusting, horrifying, terrifying. Stiles didn't even have the right words to describe how fucking disturbed he was by the whole thing.

God, and Derek. He was only _17_ when it'd all happened. Laura had been 19, away at college.

Stiles was no stranger to bad news; after Mom and then Dad, he definitely knew loss. He knew that losing an entire extended family like that must have been completely devastating. He could imagine Derek and Laura's disbelief… When Stiles had gotten the news about Dad, when he had to go identify the body, it was all something like a nightmare, and for several days he felt like he just needed to wake up, that if he could just wake up then he'd find his dad standing over him, a stern look on his face, ready to tear Stiles a new asshole over his DUI.

But he never woke up, and the nightmare only got worse.

Stiles shook himself out of his memory, and knew he needed a distraction. Normally, when something bothered him this much, he'd go on a short run, but he was still weak as hell - so annoying, by the way - and couldn't do much more than walk down the block.

But that was something, so he did.

He bought a decaf coffee from the coffee cart that parked on the corner on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and Mr. Burt made a big deal out of seeing him again, asking what had happened since it'd been months and months since Stiles had last come there. Stiles gave him the abbreviated story (saying he'd needed to take some time after Dad), made small talk about the plans for his recovery, and then headed back home. He was tired by the time he got back to his building (and didn't particularly want to hole up in his apartment at the moment), so he sat down on the bench where he'd spent the early days of therapy to rest for a minute.

He people-watched for a while, vaguely recognized some of the people out to lunch at the cafe across the street as regulars. It was only around eleven, so probably a lot of his neighbors were at work or school. That thought was kind of sad, because Stiles still had a long way to go before he could handle the stress of school or work again, especially now that his body was as weak as his mind.

He sat back, letting his head tip back in frustration for a moment before getting up and making his way back up to his apartment. He picked up his List of Little Shit to Do, and sat for ten minutes before working up to making the PT appointment for the next day.

* * *

PT fucking sucked, but Stiles could see even just three days later that he was making improvements in strength, so he tried not to grumble too much about the soreness. He'd managed to make it to every appointment on time, which was pretty huge in and of itself - it was still a fight, he found out on the Tuesday after he'd been discharged, for him to get up and go some days.

Better didn't mean well.

But he'd done it, even if he did barely stick to his schedule sometimes.

Through it all, he thought of Derek, missed Derek, felt an ache in him that he couldn't shake. He wondered if he was nuts, but his mind just couldn't compute that Derek might not be real when he was right there in Stiles' heart and memories.

Derek was so goddamn close. Stiles caught himself several times staring at his keys and thinking about going to see him, trying to shake him awake and get him back, but he knew that would just make him look like an idiot and possibly get him banned from the hospital.

He just… really wanted to look at his frowny face.

Today was his first appointment back with Dr. Hirt, and Stiles was having a teeny weeny crisis over what to tell her about Derek, or if he should even mention him at all. The whole thing sounded crazy, even to him, but he'd also made a promise to himself that he'd never to lie to her. Therapy didn't work if you lied, he knew. He'd watched a few people in the hospital just grind out whatever the doctors wanted to hear so they could leave. Some of them hadn't really needed to be there, but there were definitely some who got out that should have stayed. Sometimes Stiles wondered what had happened to them, but ultimately decided that maybe he didn't want to know.

But Derek was a huge thing that had happened to him, and skipping over him was definitely lying by omission, which was also something that Stiles wouldn't do. Lying was lying was lying when it came to his therapist.

Still, how the hell would he even bring it up?

After he'd talked a little about rebuilding his support network with Scott and Lydia, as well as the weirdness of waking up feeling stuff again, he started getting antsy to talk about Derek. I was like he absolutely needed to, needed to get some sort of confirmation that he wasn't crazy.

(Or even that he was.)

So when it came down to it, he finally went with, "So… I had this dream. While I was out."

"What was it about?" she prompted, when Stiles didn't say anything else.

"Well, I was dead in it, like a ghost. I was haunting this house with this other guy, Derek, and we got to be really good friends and then ended up together-together. And… getting to know him, working on myself and helping him, that was how I started to feel things again. And being with me pulled him out of his anger and guilt. We were really good for each other."

It was quiet for a long moment, Stiles not really knowing how to continue.

"Do you miss him?"

Stiles nodded. "All the fucking time. Every second. We were together for weeks, and now he's just… gone," Stiles stopped, searched for words. "Or, at least I thought he was."

"Are you still dreaming of him, or have you started having any type of hallucination?" Dr. Hirt asked, concerned. She made a short note on her clipboard, so Stiles knew she thought this was important. She hardly ever wrote anything down.

"No, no hallucinations. Dreams, sometimes, but that's not really what I'm talking about." God, this was sounding crazier and crazier the more he said. "He's actually a real person. When I was leaving the hospital, I saw his sister - I knew her - and talked to her for a second. It felt weird, and I didn't really know how I knew her. And then I just had this feeling that I needed to see who was in the room, so I opened the door, and… There he was. Just… Lying there. In a coma. Like I was. And then I remembered everything, it hit me like a fucking tidal wave."

Dr. Hirt made another note, then looked back up at him, her brows furrowed. "Do you think the dream was real?"

Stiles swallowed, looked away. "Yeah, I - I do. It felt to real not to be, and I don't - I know it sounds nuts, but I have all these memories, and I know things that I shouldn't know about him and his past."

"So you looked him up after you got home?" Stiles nodded, but somehow didn't feel scrutinized. "What did you find that stood out to you?"

"Well, first, there was this birthmark that I knew he had on his shoulder," Stiles paused. God, this was embarrassing. "And I know it's creepy, but when I was in the room with him I rolled him a little to see, and it was there. And then when I got home, I looked up the fire that he told me his family died in, and everything was like he said, even the part about the woman who seduced him and then set the fire."

Dr. Hirt made another note, and Stiles was kind of dreading what her conclusion would be. He started feeling more and more anxious the longer she took to look up at him.

"I'd like you to email me everything you found as soon as you can so I can review it. I don't want to make any hasty suggestions, but you're in a very vulnerable state right now. You woke up out of a depression, literally, and your mind is probably unbalanced. I'm not going to take any action just yet, however. I'm assuming you stopped your medication after you woke up?"

Stiles nodded. "I didn't want to get back on it without talking to you first, because things are so different now. I still have some trouble, but so far I haven't had any really bad days. Though that's not saying much, considering I haven't even been up for two weeks."

Dr. Hirt smiled at him. "I'm glad to hear that. I'd like you to call me if you do start to experience depression symptoms severe enough to impact your daily functioning for longer than two days, or if the harder days start to happen more often," she said, and Stiles nodded. "But right now I'd like to hear more about what happened with Derek, and how he helped you."

Stiles blinked at her. "You believe me? That he's real?"

"I believe that something very real happened with you. As for him as a real person - that, I don't know."

"Shit," Stiles sighed. "You probably think I'm schizophrenic."

"Do you think you're schizophrenic?"

Stiles didn't answer, just stared at his hands. He'd thought about it once or twice, but it seemed so implausible that he could have just… Made it all up. He remembered whole conversations, feelings and issues and touches as clearly as if it'd all happened yesterday. How could it not be real?

That was probably what every schizophrenic said.

"I don't know," he answered, finally. "It… crossed my mind, but I didn't want to think about it. I feel like it would just straight up erase everything that happened if that's what's going on. It would fuck with me so much, because I loved him. Like, really _loved_ him. I feel like I've lost something huge, and then when I saw him lying there, it was like this hope came down on me, and I thought, 'Thank god!' But I know that when I talk about it outloud, it seems crazy and ridiculous, and I'm an idiot for thinking that it might be real."

Dr. Hirt caught his eye when he glanced up at her, and looked at him steadily as she said, "You're not an idiot. It _is_ real, in the sense that you have the memories and feelings. Those are very real. Derek and the experiences you had with him might not be, but that doesn't mean that those memories and feelings don't have value. From what you've told me, Derek and the time you spent with him had a healing effect on you, and I'm glad for that." Stiles couldn't hold her gaze anymore, feeling flustered and embarrassed, and starting to get upset despite the fact that he knew what she was saying would be comforting later. "I'm not worried about you having schizophrenia. Not yet. There is a difference between a disorder and the imagination, and it's my job to distinguish that."

Stiles snorted, the upset starting to overtake him. "But either way, it's just all in my head, right?" It was bitter, and he couldn't help it.

"Maybe so. But that doesn't make it any less real for you."

Stiles leaned forward, buried his face in his hands for a moment before scrubbing his face with them.

"I just miss him so goddamn much. He said - _we_ said that we'd always find each other. I found him, and now he needs to find _me._ If it's not real, if he's not the person I think he is, then… Where does that leave me? What am I supposed to do with the feelings I have for him? It's not fucking fair, it's not fair that I'd have him like some kind of dream, and then one day, poof! He's gone, and I never see him again," Stiles was getting too riled up, he knew, and could feel his breath getting shorter. "It's not fair, it's not, I lose everyone, and now my own fucking mind is making up people for me to love and lose, and what the fuck kind of bullshit is that?"

His head started swimming, his heart rate picking up and he couldn't catch his breath. It wasn't fair, it wasn't, what the fuck - how did shit like this even happen, why would it happen to him, he didn't deserve this, or maybe he did, he'd been such a dick to his friends but this was still shit, and he'd been getting better, he'd fallen in love, he'd had it he'd had it he'd had it and now it was gone and what the hell was he supposed to do how do you move on he couldn't do this -

"Stiles, breathe with me. Take a deep breath," Dr. Hirt said calmly, somewhere in the distance. Stiles' ears were ringing, and he was vaguely aware that he was panicking. But he managed to inhale deeply, exhaling slowly and then gasping to inhale again. Once he'd taken the breath, he heard her continue, "Now hold, one, two, three. Exhale, one, two, three, four, five. Take a deep breath, one, two, three, four, five. Hold, one, two, three. Exhale, one, two, three, four, five. On this next breath, squeeze your hands into fists. One, two, three, four, five, and hold tight, one, two, three. Exhale and relax, one, two, three, four, five."

They progressed through each muscle group, Stiles' racing heart calming as his body became more and more relaxed. After a while, he was sunk into the chair, lax and exhausted.

"Fuck," was all he said. Dr. Hirt was quiet as she let him recover, and Stiles was 90% positive that his session was almost up. He knew she'd keep him if she felt like he needed it, and that she was waiting for him to tell her one way or the other. "I'm - I'm okay, I think," he said finally.

"I know this is stressful for you," she said, her voice gentle without being condescending. "But I do think it would be good to talk about Derek with me, maybe even to friends you feel you can trust. Remember that you _will_ be okay, regardless of if you have to grieve for him, too."

Stiles put the heels of his hands against his eyes. "This fucking sucks," he mumbled. He didn't want to move past it, he didn't want to grieve. He wanted with all his heart to just keep hoping that Derek would wake up and they'd be together again.

Or even for himself to wake up, and be back at the house with Derek.

"I know," she said. "And I'm sorry."

Stiles sighed deeply, and then one of his conversations with Derek replayed in his head:

 _"I think we need to make a promise, here."_

 _"What promise?"_

 _"If we ever get separated - no matter what - we can't give up on ourselves. We keep going."_

Derek had said he wasn't certain that was a promise he could keep, and even though Stiles had promised himself, somehow that felt a million years away and so much more like a mountain he couldn't climb.

"We did say that we wouldn't stop," Stiles said, fighting back tears. "That we wouldn't stop trying to get better if we ever lost each other."

"Are you going to keep that promise?" Dr. Hirt asked after a moment.

Stiles thought for a long time, then let out a choked laugh. "I think I have to, yeah."

"That's good to hear," she said, and when Stiles got himself together reasonably, he looked at her to see her smiling.

She was on his side, like always.

"Is our time up?" he asked, and Dr. Hirt nodded. "Yes, but my hour after yours was just a planning hour, and you're welcome to stay for another half hour if you'd like."

"Do you mind?" Stiles asked, and she shook her head.

"Not at all."

"Then I'd like to talk about him. About… Derek."

So he did.

* * *

Stiles was having trouble sleeping. In the house all he'd had to do was think about sleep, and he'd be out; it didn't work that way anymore.

He'd lay there for hours, just thinking. And 99% of the time, his mind was on Derek, trying to sort out his memories and feelings, and working toward getting it in his head that he needed to start the grief process and nip his hope in the bud. Which, unfortunately, had blossomed the second he saw Derek, and to go with that metaphor, the flower was just too damn pretty to cut off.

His thoughts always, always circled back to feeling like it was unfair. And, fuck, he knew life was unfair. He knew that better than most people. But it was the same thought he'd had when Mom had been diagnosed, when she'd died, when Dad died. And just like those times, he felt like it was his fault for losing Derek, because his mind might have just invented him in some kind of cruel cosmic joke.

God, Derek. He missed him so much. It seemed unreal that he wasn't just around the corner, about to walk into the room and roll his eyes at Stiles for doing something dumb.

Stiles caught himself saying things to Derek because he'd just forget he wasn't there, and those were some of the worst times, because it'd come down on his head all at once that was gone, might never have really been there in the first place. He'd think about things he wanted to tell Derek, or wonder idly where he was, before he'd remember again.

Sometimes he sat with the pajama pants he'd worn for weeks, just rubbing the material through his hands, and feel a crushing longing in his chest, a hole where Derek should be.

When he'd told Dr. Hirt about the ritual with the pants (which sounded fucking weird, but whatever), she suggested that he schedule time every day to sit with them and let his mind go wherever until the time was up. Stiles thought it was kind of a stupid idea, but he did it anyway. He wasn't sure if it helped, because he didn't feel like Derek's ghost was leaving him at all, but he also knew that therapy was about persistence and repetition, so he kept doing it.

Then, two weeks after that first session back, Stiles decided to tell Scott and Lydia. Dr. Hirt had said it would be good for him, and that it would help him rebuild his support network.

He'd seen them a lot after he came back home, Scott coming by after work to play video games and eat dinner, and Lydia on lunch dates and some Saturday afternoons when she had time. Scott brought Kira to dinner a couple times - she was as cute as Scott had mooned about - and he saw Jackson sometimes when he went to Lydia's. Jackson was less of an asshole than usual, probably due to some kind of grudging agreement with Lydia; she'd been telling Stiles about some of their couple's therapy, and compromise was something they were both learning. Something that kind of cracked Stiles up (though he'd for sure never say a damn thing to Lydia) was that Jackson's jealousy of Stiles was apparently number three on their list of Major Couple Issues. He tried not to feel smug, because he wanted Lydia to be happy, even with Jackson, and basking in Jackson's envy wasn't exactly a good way to be supportive.

So he'd invited Scott and Lydia over for dinner, telling them not to bring anyone else. They'd both been curious, so he'd told them he just wanted to spend time with close friends only. They'd let it go after that, and Stiles put "plan dinner" on his List of Little Shit to Do.

He was nervous though. It was one thing to tell Dr. Hirt about Derek, because she was his therapist, and it was comforting to know that the only judgements she was making were about his mental health. Which sounded kind of weird, because nobody wanted anybody to think they were crazy, but Stiles also knew that that was what the therapist was for. But it was a whole other fucking ball game to tell people who might not get it.

He trusted Lydia and Scott, more than anyone, but Lydia was analytical and scientifically-minded, needing methods of proof and logic to put stock into things, and Scott was still a little on eggshells around Stiles, even though that was fading as they hung out more. The last thing he wanted was for his friends to think he'd traded in one mental illness for another, or make them worry more. He was definitely aware of how the whole thing sounded to other people.

He waited until after dinner.

"There's something I want to talk to you guys about," he said as he was putting leftovers away, not wanting to look at either of them just yet.

"What is it? You know you can tell us anything," Scott said from behind him, and Lydia hummed her agreement.

Stiles took a deep breath.

"Can you guys go sit on the couch while I finish up in here?"

There was a noticeable pause, before Lydia said, "Of course. Whenever you're ready."

Stiles heard them walk into the den, and braced himself against the counter, pulling it together. He put everything in the fridge, closed his eyes, and took one more deep breath before going to take a seat in the arm chair.

It was quiet for a bit.

"So what's up?" Scott prompted, and Stiles licked his lips, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

"This is weird, but just hear me out," Stiles said. "And please don't think I'm crazy."

Lydia's eyes were sharp as she said, "You know we've never thought you were crazy."

Stiles smiled. "Thanks. I just wanted to warn you."

"Warning not needed," Scott said.

"Okay," Stiles said, and his fucking voice shook a little. "There's this dream I had when I was unconscious."

Lydia looked surprised. "Dream? But coma patients don't enter the REM cycle."

Good ole Lydia.

"Well, that's all I can call it. It felt so damn real, but I'll get to that. The important thing is that I - I met someone, in the dream. And he turned out to be a real person."

Scott frowned. "What do you mean?"

Stiles sat back, ran a hand through his hair. "Well in the dream, I knew him. Intimately, if you catch my drift. I have all these memories of us, from the rocky start we had all the way up to the the weird goodbye we did right before I woke up. Whole conversations, stuff about his family and a fucking birthmark that he actually has in real life. And… I don't know how I could have known any of this if I didn't actually know him, if it wasn't real."

"So the guy you dreamed about actually exists? You met him when you woke up?" Scott asked.

"Sort of. He was another coma patient in the room across from me - that's why it took me so long to meet you when you were picking me up. I didn't remember anything when I first woke up, but when I walked out of my room, I saw his sister coming out, and she looked familiar… And somehow I knew her name. Laura. I didn't even know how I knew, but I did, and when she left, I just had this urge to look in the room, and there he was. Everything came flooding back, and… I don't know. Fuck, I don't know what to think about any of it."

Lydia was watching him carefully, but looked concerned, while Scott kind of had a shocked look. Stiles didn't know what he'd been expecting, but it probably should have been this.

"What has your therapist said?" Lydia asked, just as Scott looked like he wanted to say something.

Stiles sighed. "In a nutshell? She told me that my memories and feelings are important, but that I need to try to move on." It was quiet for a long moment, but that wasn't the whole story, so Stiles continued, "His name was Derek. Derek Hale. He had a guilt complex and anger issues, and I was still dealing with the crazy depression. But it was getting to know him, talking about shit I'd learned in therapy with him, and then realizing that I… that I _loved_ him, that brought me back to being me again. Or close to it, anyway."

Scott's brow furrowed, but, like the hopeless romantic he was, Stiles could see the little hearts in his eyes behind the concern and skepticism. Lydia had her "I'm calculating difficult math in my head" face on.

"You never went into PVS," she said, and she turned her eyes from Stiles to out the window, narrowing them. "If you were only in a coma, you wouldn't have dreamed, because the cerebrum is shut down."

Stiles was surprised into silence as he tried to digest that.

"Maybe there were times when something changed with him? He was out for a long time. Maybe he could have woken up a little at some point or something?" Scott asked, and Lydia shook her head in agitation.

"I doubt that, and otherwise it shouldn't be possible. The consensus in the neurological community is that people don't dream in the states of consciousness that exist within coma patients," she said. "Usually patients wake up with no feeling of a lapse in time, because unlike normal sleep, you're unaware that time has passed."

"So… What could be going on?" Scott asked, and Lydia turned her attention back to Stiles.

"Can you show me physical evidence proving what you learned in your dream?" she asked, and Stiles let out a shaky sigh and nodded, leaving the room to grab his laptop.

He could hear Scott and Lydia muttering between themselves.

"What do you really think is happening?" Scott asked her.

"I'm not sure," Lydia said. "I'm concerned it's schizophrenia, though it also may be his mind's way of coping with waking up with the worst parts of the depression gone. I don't know whether or not we can trust his memory concerning the real Derek and Laura, however, but if what he's saying is true, then something strange is going on."

"Do you really think the whole thing could be real?" Scott asked, sounding doubtful.

"No. But sometimes the only explanations don't make sense. And the mind is built to try to logically explain things it doesn't understand."

"You're serious."

"Yes," Lydia said. "But I want to see what Stiles has, first."

Stiles decided to stop eavesdropping and go back into the room. He sat between Lydia and Scott, and pulled up the beach house, first.

"This house was where everything happened, all the stuff I remember. It's also where I got knocked out," he said, scrolling down the page. "And here's Laura's name. She and Derek jointly owned the beach house; they inherited it after their family died in a house fire set by an arsonist named Kate. This is the news story, and in the other tab are the obituaries. I didn't know everybody's names, but I know Nathan, Will, and Cora. Derek told me about all of this, and about how he felt like the fire was his fault." Stiles left out the part about Derek's real association with Kate, because real or not real, that wasn't Stiles' story to tell.

Lydia pulled the laptop over and scanned the articles.

"I have some thoughts, but I think it's important to keep with what your therapist says. However, I think you should ask her if she thinks it's a good idea for you to get some closure - go back to the house, then visit Derek and say goodbye," she said, putting the laptop on the coffee table, and Scott nodded his head.

"I think that's a good idea," he said, and put a hand on Stiles' back when he slumped forward. "I don't even know how I'd handle what you're going through. I know you've already lost a lot, man, but… he might never wake up. And if he does, he might not be him, you know?"

Stiles rubbed his eyes, happy to have Scott, who would suspend his disbelief just to comfort Stiles a little. "Yeah, I know. I just don't want to let it go," he said, trying to push the tears back. "But I know I have to."

Lydia reached over and took his hand in hers.

"If Dr. Hirt agrees with me, then you should call up the owner of the house and schedule a time to rent it out, or see if you can take a tour if it comes down to it. Then go see him again," she said, and Stiles squeezed her hand gently.

"Okay."

"When's your next appointment?" Scott asked.

"Tomorrow," Stiles answered. They'd scheduled it that way so he could talk about this meeting with Scott and Lydia.

"Then let's not worry about it until then," Scott said, and Stiles loved him, but that was like asking Stiles to fly to the moon on a broomstick. Still, he nodded his head.

"Movie?" he asked. He could tell that they still had questions, but he didn't feel like he could really answer them right then. Thankfully, Scott and Lydia were well-versed in Stiles's Moods, so the conversation was dropped like a hot potato.

"My pick," Lydia said, reaching for the controller. "I'm not watching one of your Marvel movies for the hundredth time."

Stiles laughed, though it was a little hollow.

"Sure Lyds, whatever you want."

* * *

Stiles couldn't get the stuff Lydia said when she thought he was out of earshot out of his head.

He knew it was counterproductive, and when he'd told Dr. Hirt about it, she'd said that the mind was a powerful thing, and that he may be rewriting his memories from shortly after he'd left the hospital. To Stiles it sounded just as likely that he'd done that as it did that the whole thing was real, so he was kind of caught up over what to think. Especially because Lydia - _Lydia_ , of all people - had sounded like she might even be willing to believe Stiles.

Still, Lydia said that he needed closure, and Stiles knew that too. He knew that Derek might not wake up, and it was very likely that he'd slip into PVS (if he hadn't already in the weeks since Stiles had been discharged) and really never wake up again. And even if he did, he might not be who Stiles knew, or know who Stiles was, because it could still all be some sort of crazy thing that Stiles' imagination was torturing him with.

So any way he turned it, he knew he'd have to say goodbye.

When he ran Lydia's suggestion by Dr. Hirt, she agreed that it was a good idea, and said that he should take a few days to visit the house and Derek. She wanted him to acknowledge his memories and feelings so that he could start to let them go and grieve.

He tried the website to reserve like he'd done before, but the first available dates were over two months away.

He did the only thing he could think to do, because his life would just be that much harder if he had all this hanging over his head for months. He wouldn't be able to handle going that long dreading the time when he'd have to totally give Derek up.

So he was calling Laura. Or, at least, the number listed on the site.

He still didn't know if he'd even be able to get a reservation for anytime soon. Last time he did it he'd made it a month in advance, and though Derek said that he thought she was renting it out less, he couldn't exactly count on that memory.

His mind was whirring as he dialed the number and waited for someone to answer.

"Laura Hale," she answered, and Stiles momentarily lost his breath. "Hello?"

"Yes! Yes, I'm sorry, my reception is… bad." Lord. "My name is Stiles Stilinski. I was calling about the beach house? I stayed there a few weeks ago."

"Were you looking to make a reservation?" she asked, and Stiles could still hear the exhaustion in her voice.

"Um, yes. For as soon as possible. I know the site didn't have anything for another two months, but I really need to get the fu- um, I mean, I need to get away for a while."

Laura laughed a bit. "I can understand that feeling. Hold on while I pull up the log book."

"Sure."

It was quiet for a moment, and Stiles could hear her tapping at a keyboard.

"Normally we need at least three week's notice, and up to three months in the on season," she said, and Stiles' heart started sinking right down into his stomach. "But we've had a cancellation for next weekend. Thursday evening through Monday morning."

"I'll take it," Stiles said immediately, feeling simultaneously excited and sad, relieved despite the fact that he had a weird sense of dread starting up. Fucking hell, how could somebody even feel all that shit at once?

"Alright," she said. "I'll make a note here and open the dates for you on the site so that you can register and pay."

"Thank you," Stiles said, and somehow that didn't seem like enough, even though he wasn't really sure what he could say. "I really appreciate it."

In the pause before she answered, he had an impulse to just spill his guts to her, verbal diarrhea until there was nothing left in him; but he stopped himself, because he knew he'd probably lose his reservation at best. At worst, she'd have him hunted down and shot or something for being a stalker. So when she said, "You're welcome. Have a nice day!" Stiles could only nod (like she could see him).

She hung up before he could say anything else.

Stiles immediately put the dates in his phone, then tossed it on his desk, breathing deep and slow, taking a moment before pulling up the site again.

He couldn't help hesitating right after putting in his card information. For a second it seemed impossible to finish up the reservation form, because this was gonna be it. If he did this, then in a little under two weeks, he'd say goodbye to Derek for good, and his heart stuttered, sending a bigass lump into his throat.

He frowned, sighed through his nose, and clicked the button.

Reservation made.

He went to his bed and just let himself drop, closing his eyes.

He had to do this. He _needed_ to do this.

No matter how much his heart screamed at him not to.

* * *

Over the next week, Stiles struggled every single goddamn day day. He told Dr. Hirt, and she started him back on his antidepressant at the same low dose, and Stiles 100% agreed that he needed it. There had been a few days when he'd completely fucked his schedule by sleeping on into the afternoon, and his appetite was fading again. It wasn't the blackness or blankness, but it was a deep ache, and feelings of being lost and hopeless.

He always managed to get himself together by the afternoon to make it to PT or therapy, and especially on nights when Scott would come over. He didn't miss any of his dates with Lydia, either, and he could still smile and laugh without it being empty.

It was just... He didn't want to let Derek go. He didn't want to have to say goodbye. Fucking hell, he just didn't, okay, and sometimes he felt like he might never be able to. Somewhere in him, there was still a stupid spark of hope, and when he was trying to fall asleep at night, he'd think about what would happen if he woke up the next day and got a call from Derek, or if Derek would show up at his front door with a grumpy smile, or if Stiles woke up in their bed curled around him. His brain always went back and forth between despair, hope, and consciously admitting that he needed to let go. It was a fucking battle, and he fought it both when he was trying to fall asleep and when he couldn't get out of bed after waking up, when he stayed in that just-barely-conscious drift he was way too familiar with.

The days were creeping by, and even though he tried to distract himself, Derek was in his thoughts even more. It was fucking crazy, and he was getting anxiety about the trip, about being in the house with all their memories floating around for Stiles to wallow in. And what if he couldn't deal with it? What if he had a goddamn nervous breakdown and ended up back where he was before he woke up from the coma? God, he didn't want that, and the thought was terrifying.

The Tuesday before he left, he told Dr. Hirt that he was scared of losing everything when he went back.

"I just feel like when I let this go, I'll lose part of myself, and that it might be the part that's actually not fucked up anymore."

"I think you'll find that this will be easier than you're thinking. Remember what we talked about, how you cope with memories?"

Stiles sighed. "'Remember, not ruminate.' Acknowledge your thoughts and feelings but don't let them drive you nuts. You can think about it for a little bit, but then move on and do something else."

"Exactly," she replied. "I want you to repeat that to yourself every now and then while you're there. Write it down on a card and look at it, if you have to. You're delicate right now, and I'm hesitant to send you on this trip alone; however, I think you need to handle this privately. But if things get to be too much for you to deal with on your own, I want you to call me or one of your friends. It's important not to forget your support network."

Stiles nodded, cracked his knuckles in agitation.

"I'm still learning how to use it," he said, and they changed the subject to methods he could use to learn to accept help again.

He went home feeling weird and unhappy, but not upset. He had trouble sleeping that night, so he got up and folded the laundry he'd run earlier that day. Got back into bed. Couldn't sleep. Read a textbook to try to bore himself tired. Got back in bed. No sleep. Got up and stretched. Back to bed. Restless.

When he woke up the next morning, he didn't know how long he'd been asleep, but he was both exhausted and wired, definitely on edge. He had a lunch date with Lydia at noon, but it was only a quarter after seven.

He went on a long walk, definitely pushing himself (but feeling better because he could actively see his progress), and stopped at the coffee cart on his way back, buying a bagel with a ridiculous amount of cream cheese and sitting on the bench outside to eat. It was kind of a gross day, cloudy, and probably going to rain in the afternoon. It matched his mood, even though he was currently doing his damnedest to feel a little happier. Or, if not happy, at least get rid of this restless awfulness.

Lydia picked up on his weirdness at lunch, but she knew that his trip was the next day, and Stiles figured that she was leaving it up to him to talk about it if he wanted. She only ever pushed when she felt like she really needed to, but Stiles didn't need a push right then; he needed a distraction. And she understood that, like she always did, because she knew him cover to cover.

The only thing she said as they were leaving the restaurant was, "Remember what I said about shutting us out. Call me if you need me, because if you come back and you're a disaster, I'm going to be even more ticked, and nobody wants that."

Stiles had smiled and hugged her.

He was more active the rest of that day than he'd been in a while, scratching off every last thing on his list, which he usually never really managed to do. He'd even packed without freaking out, though he'd had a long, long debate with himself over whether or not to take _the_ pajamas with him.

In the end, they went into his bag.

He expected not to be able to sleep again, even though he was so damn tired. The dread was a pretty good stimulant, but despite it being heavy in his gut, he drifted off before he really wanted to, with the depressing/relieving thought that it'd all be over soon.

* * *

His ears were practically ringing by the time he stopped at the grocery store down the street from the beach house, because he'd been blaring music the whole drive to try to get his mind away from where he was headed. He shopped methodically, and knew in the back of his head that he was stalling for time while he debated over which bunch of bananas to get, and finally got fed up enough with himself that he snatched up a random bunch and all but stomped off to pick up the rest of the crap on his list.

Even with the extra time in the sort-of familiar setting, it was still surreal pulling up to the house, seeing Derek's beautiful garden out front. He didn't stop to look, just pulled all the way up under the house. He sat with the car running for a long moment, not looking at anything at all.

He finally shut the car down and got out, grabbing his bag from the back and turning to head up to the back deck.

He stopped at the bed-swing thing, put his bag down, and sat down on it.

This was where they'd had their first kiss.

Before he knew it, Stiles was crying. He wasn't sobbing, but he was definitely crying enough to start to get snotty after a while. It was just… he could feel Derek's lips, kissing his mouth, neck, ears, and he could see Derek's smile, or his eyes dark with lust, and he could feel Derek's hand on his ankle like it'd been that night shortly before they literally kissed and made up after fighting about the dumbass mancala disaster.

A longing hit Stiles, this absolute need he was too familiar with, the desire to just bring someone back, to have them again, to see them, touch them, hear them, feel them, because they belonged there. Because the person wasn't supposed to be gone, they just weren't, that wasn't the way it was supposed to be. _Derek_ wasn't supposed to be gone, they'd promised, _promised_ , and Derek was an asshole if he never found him. There was a hole that needed to be filled, and Derek was the only one who could fill it perfectly, have it match the right shape, and otherwise it would just be an empty space in his heart that couldn't ever hold anyone else.

Why did his fucking heart even make new spaces for people when he knew he couldn't afford it?

Stiles wiped his nose on his sleeve, which was gross, but he didn't care. He had to stop this train of thought, because he could feel it leading him down a dangerous path. Shutting down everything just because he'd been hurt wasn't something that he could let himself do. Boundaries helped people, but defenses destroyed them.

He took a deep breath and stood up, walking behind the swing and running his hand over the back. He picked up his bag and headed inside.

"Remember, not ruminate," he muttered under his breath. When he got to the back deck, he had flashes of standing out in the storm, of making Derek frown-laugh-smirk-smile by falling off the railing, and of the final time he'd seen Derek, where they'd held each other as they said a brutal goodbye that they didn't know really was the end.

His nose tingled and his eyes watered again, but he blinked the tears away and looked out at the ocean.

It was always so beautiful.

He let the salt-air clear his eyes, nose, and the choked feeling in his throat. He felt the wind ruffle through his hair, cooling him off from the heat of the sun. Summer was starting, and it was warmer than he remembered.

He stood for a long time, eyes closed, listening to the waves, before finally heading inside.

* * *

There were ghosts everywhere. He could see himself and Derek playing games on the coffee table, on the dining table, on the floor. He could picture them squabbling over the couch while they read, bugging the hell out of each other... and everything else about the couch: the kissing, hugging, spooning; Derek gently stroking Stiles' back when he'd flop on top of him; Stiles running his hands lazily over Derek's legs while they were propped in Stiles' lap; Derek's face looking ten years younger when he was sitting on the floor, head tilted back to the couch so Stiles could run his fingers through his hair.

Stiles ran his hand over the arm of the couch, standing in the spot where they'd had sex for the first time, Derek sucking Stiles off so fucking perfectly after being ridiculously adorable and playful.

He scrubbed a hand across his eyes, because this was too goddamn much. Everything hurt, his chest felt like it was compressing, and not in a panic-attack way, but in a I'm-fucking-devastated way. His stomach felt like it was in his knees, and there was a choking sensation in his throat.

He was so sad, and he missed Derek so much, and there wasn't anywhere in the open den/kitchen/dining area that wasn't full of memories.

He took a deep breath, gathering himself, and walked into the foyer where he'd slipped and fallen down the stairs. He raised his eyes very, very slowly up the stairs and to the door to that lead to the attic room where he and Derek had slept and cuddled and had sex. Fuck it, no, it was where they'd made love. Stiles was alone with his pain right then and he could be as fucking cheesy as he wanted, and making love was what they'd done the whole day they'd spent in that bed. The bed where they'd touched each other and got to know each other's bodies as well as they knew each other's hearts.

He couldn't make himself go up the stairs, because the thought of looking at their bed made him want to puke.

He made a detour for one of the other bedrooms, realizing that it would have to be his safe haven while he was there, since he'd never really bothered with them before and there weren't any real memories in them.

The first thing he did when he walked in the bedroom was take his bag over to the dresser and unpack. It was hard to make himself do anything right then, because his head was a fucking minefield, every little thing making grief explode within him in a brand new way. Still, he knew that the mindlessness of unpacking would help calm him down.

He thought about making something to eat, something else to do with his hands, then realized, shit, he'd left all the groceries in the car. Along with his laptop and cell phone and DS. He steeled himself against the memories and made his way back to his car, trying to find a happy medium between shutting down and sobbing hysterically, maybe freaking out like he did the moment he realized how in love with Derek he was.

All the groceries were put away on autopilot, and Stiles stood aimlessly in the kitchen, just staring at the ugly bird statue like maybe it had all the answers. He picked it up, turning it over in his hands. He absently remembered Derek trying to throw the thing in a rage, but it had just reappeared like it'd never gone anywhere since they hadn't been able to move anything in the house when other people were there.

That was when he'd met Laura and she'd broken her camera.

An idea occurred to him - maybe he could ask Laura about the camera? But then, if his mind was just rewriting things like Dr. Hirt thought, then he wouldn't really know if he knew later what he thought he knew now and jesus christ, this was so fucking ridiculous. But maybe if he called Scott and told him what he thought had happened, and then asked Laura, and then got Laura to tell Scott that she'd only ever met him once and talked to him three times then he could see and prove that he wasn't making any of it up -

He couldn't do that though, not without freaking Laura out in one way or another, and in any case, it was crazy to think that his dream thing had been real in the first place. What the hell, why was his mind doing this to him? This wasn't fair, this wasn't supposed to be this way, why was Derek gone, fuck, fuck...

Fuck, what did you do when you couldn't even trust your own memory, your own mind?

Tears slipped down Stiles' face without him realizing he was even crying, but once he noticed, the floodgates opened. He fell to his knees, heaving sobs like he hadn't since that big breakdown that may or may not have actually happened, holy shit. He couldn't breathe through the twisted version of hysterical laughter that sobbing was.

It wasn't stopping, either, and he just let it wash over him in brutal waves, flashing back to collapsing on the beach in a mess of laughing and crying, but right then it was compounded because he knew that there would be no coming back like he did then. Derek wouldn't be holding him close and soothing; there wouldn't be a gentle hand stroking his ankle, or a soft voice murmuring to him that he'd be okay, that he was okay.

So he broke, clutching the fucking bird statue like a lifeline, and just let it all out until he was half-screaming, his throat going raw with the force of his breaths and cries. His mind was a goddamn tornado of memories and loss and pain and grief, and he could only hope he'd surface from it without passing out first.

He couldn't even really think anymore, could only feel, and all he knew was pain and Derek and a longing for home.

Slowly, slowly, he came back to himself, until his sobs were just hiccups, and he realized that his whole face was leaking, but he couldn't bring himself to give a shit beyond cursory wiping his nose with his shirt. He'd wash it or something, whatever, it didn't matter.

His hand relaxed a little around the bird statue, and he realized how cramped up it was. His palm and fingers felt pinched from how he'd been gripping the sharp angles and points of the damn thing, but it was kind of grounding, keeping him in the present.

"Derek," he choked, desperate. "Derek, if you're here, if you're listening…." His voice was shaking, squeaky, but that was okay, because there wasn't really anyone to hear him. "I need you to wake up for me, okay? Just wake up. Please, please wake up, I don't want to do this, I don't want you to be gone, I just want you back, please, please, just come back to me."

His voice broke, and when he squeezed his eyes shut again, more tears fell. The whole front of his shirt was completely soaked, and his face was a mess. He knocked his head back against the counter twice, frustrated and sad and hopeless.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…" he mumbled, not even really sure what he was apologizing for, or to whom, but something felt so wrong that it'd just tumbled out of his mouth. "God, I want to go home, I'm so sorry…"

And that was how he knew that he was just low as fuck - when he got that intense need to go home, knowing that he didn't really have anywhere that really felt like "home."

He curled into a ball on the floor, let himself cry gently until there was nothing left. He was exhausted, but he also had to eat something despite the vague nausea, so he dragged himself up, wobbling a little as dizziness hit him. After a few breaths he was okay, so he slapped together a sandwich and got a coke, then went to his bedroom to eat and do something stupid and distracting like play all of his turns on that hangman app on his phone so he wouldn't just lay on the bed and wallow.

Once he'd eaten, he felt strangely cold, so he pulled the extra blankets down from the closet and made a nest in the bed, set his laptop, phone, and DS within reach, and settled down.

He managed not to let himself fall asleep until eight, but he gave up on waiting for ten, and even though he was skipping dinner, he figured it'd be okay for one night.

He'd just get back on it tomorrow.

* * *

By Friday night, he wasn't so sure he could make it all the way through Monday morning. He'd gone to the beach for most of the day, sat and thought and hurt and sometimes cried. He'd watched the sunset, realized he was a little sunburnt despite the sunblock he'd put on - fantastic, really - and then made himself actually cook something for dinner before he hid away in his room again.

He definitely hadn't managed to make it upstairs to their bed.

Still, Saturday morning was a little easier. He wandered around, just touching things, sitting places, letting himself remember. He didn't cry anymore - he felt like he could, but he didn't want to. Instead, he was trying to turn his mind around and remember the things that'd made him happy, and let them make him happy that they'd happened instead of sad that they didn't. It didn't have to make sense to anybody but him, anyway.

He went to the game closet, ran his fingers across several of the boxes. He took out the deck of cards.

"I still can't believe you were better than me at speed," he said quietly, huffing a little laugh. "Or maybe just playing Scott for years gave me a big head."

He knew Derek wasn't there, but he still wanted to talk to him. So he did.

"You were better than me at a lot of these, remember? Talk about blows to my fragile ego. Left, right, and center, I just got owned over and over were probably cheating though, let's be real.

"But you did play these games a million times with your family or when you were grounded, right? I still can't believe your parents' version of grounding. Talk about fucking brutal. But then again, you're so fucking old that you were raised in the dark ages, so there you go."

Stiles put the cards back and shut the door to the closet, turned and leaned against it.

"I'll never forget you. Ever. Even if it wasn't actually real, you were real to _me_ , and that's all I give a fuck about. You'll be with me every day, just like Mom and Dad," he took a deep breath, held it, then sighed heavily. "I have to let you go though, just like them, or else I can't keep our promise - I won't be able to keep getting better. You pushed me, helped me, and I've gotta keep letting you do it by moving on. I love you so fucking much, and I miss you, but you're not in my world anymore." Stiles knocked his head back against the door gently. "But I'm gonna keep loving you, probably forever. I can't change that, and I won't. And I promise that I'll be happy, okay? I promise."

Of course, there wasn't any reply, just the silence of the house and the ticking of the ugly kitchen clock. He noticed that it was already noon, so with a sigh, he pushed off the door and went to grab his phone so he could play some gross and cheerful music while he made lunch.

God, he wanted a whiskey. The whole bottle, even. But that was still a no-no, and might be until the day he actually died for real.

He spent the rest of the day on the couch, watching whatever he found on Netflix on his laptop. He wanted to keep talking to Derek, but when he thought about it, it probably wouldn't be a good thing to talk to him as if he were just hanging out with Stiles. It was one thing to try and get closure, and another thing to pretend that Derek was really there.

Stiles had another idea that night, but decided to put it off until the next day, too sleepy to really do anything else after he finished cleaning up from dinner.

So Sunday morning, he sat down at his computer outside on the back deck, and wrote.

He wrote about Derek, everything that he knew about him, all the memories he had. He described how Derek had looked when he smiled, when he frowned, when he frowny-smiled; he talked about his magic eyes, how they changed randomly and were kind of like watercolors; he wrote about his hands, their strength and their gentleness; he went through Derek's family history; he scoured his mind for every joke he'd ever heard Derek make, as well as whenever he laughed at Stiles; their fights and the way they made up; their banter and Derek's playful side.

He put it all on paper - well, on screen - and he did it for hours and hours, stopping only to make himself eat lunch and then do his exercises in the afternoon. By dinner time, he wasn't even done, but he knew he had to stop or he'd keep going until he dropped. He'd been sort of obsessive over it, feeling like he had to get it all out, not only so he wouldn't forget later, but so that he could remember it all now and try to work through it. He also thought maybe he could clean it up, give a copy to Dr. Hirt, maybe even Scott and Lydia.

Because he wanted people to know. Even if it made him seem (even feel) a little crazy, he didn't want Derek to be this unknown ghost that followed Stiles around. The whole experience was so important to Stiles, and it was part of him now, no matter what it really was, and he definitely didn't want to shut that down or shut his friends out of it.

It was good, though, because it didn't give him much time to think about the next morning, when he would really, finally, completely say goodbye.

He was going to see Derek at the hospital.

* * *

He'd packed the night before, so Monday morning all he had to do was eat breakfast, throw out the food that wouldn't survive the car trip (nobody liked food poisoning), put everything in the car and go.

But right as he was walking out the door, he stopped.

He hadn't gone up to their room the whole time he'd been there, and he knew he would regret it if he never went. He swallowed hard, felt the stupid panic start to creep up his spine, and sat down in one of the arm chairs to get himself to relax until the crappiness started to fade.

It took him a while even after he calmed down, but eventually he got up and made his way to the stairs.

He stared at that first step for a long damn time, trying to work himself up into taking the plunge.

He shook himself a little, and then determinedly put one foot on the first step.

Once he'd started, it was easier to keep going, and before he knew it he was there, back in the bright-ass room with the pale yellow curtains and the cozy heaven-bed he'd spent so many days and nights in. He took a deep breath.

The comforter was soft under his fingers, just like he remembered. Fluffy and perfect. Stiles turned and sat down gently, like the whole thing might explode or something if he fell too hard. The bed dipped under him, and he relaxed, lying back slowly. He turned to tuck his face into the comforter and breathed deeply.

He could almost feel Derek's touch against his skin.

He lay there for a long time, not even really thinking. The bed was so ridiculously comfortable, and the morning light so warm and nice, that he felt safe. Almost happy.

If he'd known it would be like this, he would have done it sooner; but he had to admit that it probably wouldn't have been this way if he'd tried it before then, before he was ready.

He didn't really want to move, but he knew he had to be out of the house soon anyway… And it was time to make his final stop. So he peeled himself out of the bed, took one last, sad look around the room, and made his way down to the Jeep.

His eyes caught on the front garden before he pulled completely out of the driveway. It was kind of a magical place, in a way, and even better when he thought about what Derek had put into it. He watched his ghost wander around with Derek's as he pointed out the different flowers, telling him about his family.

He looked away, and didn't let himself watch the house disappear through the rearview mirror.

* * *

It took a long time to get out of the car once he'd parked at the hospital. The whole thing felt like he'd been pushing a huge boulder up a hill, and now that he was taking a rest, it only meant that he had time to dread how much further he had to go.

He was close to the top, though. Or, at least he hoped so.

He leaned his head against the steering wheel, tapping his forehead on it a few times. God, this was so fucking hard, but he had to do this. It was the last thing to do, the one thing left before he could put all this behind him and start to move on.

This was what it would take to keep his promise to Derek.

With that thought and a last deep breath, Stiles forced himself out of the Jeep and into the hospital, but his determination wavered when he got to the eighth floor.

He kept thinking he was ready, that it couldn't possibly hit him from any more goddamn angles than it already had, but there he was, standing outside of the elevator, staring at his shoes and almost crying, because this was it. This was absolutely the end, the last scene before the book was done. No more editing, no more words. It would be over, and he'd have to put it on the shelf and walk away, start writing something else.

Metaphors aside, he just didn't fucking want to. There had to be more to this story, right? How could it just end like this, with a goodbye? What was the point of this fucking romance novel if they didn't end up together? Nobody wanted to read something like that, because everyone wanted a happy ending. Or, christ, at least bitter-sweet.

And even though he knew how useless it was to think it, the "it's not fair" ran through his mind over and over.

"Excuse me sir, but are you okay?"

Stiles shook himself out of his thoughts, noticing a young girl, maybe nine or so, staring at him with a frown. He smiled down at her, a little fake, but whatever.

"Yeah, I'm fine. I've just never liked hospitals, you know?"

"I don't like them either," she agreed. "But it means a lot to the people here when you come visit them, so it's okay."

"Yeah," Stiles said, smiling a little more real this time. "Being stuck in one sucks - I know from experience - and it's good to have people to come see you. It gets kind of lonely."

"Exactly," she said. "Well, I have to get back to my friend now, and you should probably go see your person, too. Cheer up, they need to see you smile!"

And with her own big grin, she set off down the hallway in kind of a flurry. She actually reminded Stiles of himself when he was around that age, putting on a happy face because his mom was dying and he didn't want her to only ever see him cry.

He owed the same to Derek, to smile at him.

He stopped just outside the room, listening to see if there was anyone inside. When he didn't hear anything, he knocked, but there was no answer.

No point in wasting any more time.

The door creaked a little when he pushed it open, and the lights were out. It was just a little dim, because the blinds on the huge window were pulled up, so Stiles could still see plenty. He braced himself, and looked at Derek.

He smiled.

The way the light hit Derek, it looked like one side of his mouth was quirked up, with one eyebrow a little raised; it was the same expression he wore when he was laughing at Stiles for being stupid. The other side of his face was peaceful, but kind of frowny, and the whole thing was perfect, because that was exactly Derek.

Stiles walked to the bed, but wasn't quite sure what to do, what would be okay. In the end, though, he couldn't help himself, and reached out to brush Derek's thick, much longer hair away from his forehead.

He was warm - not fever-warm, but alive warm - and his skin was still soft as ever. He looked different with his face shaved and thin, but it was definitely still him. Derek breathed gently, and Stiles cupped his cheek, thumb rubbing gently under his eye. He wanted to touch more, trace Derek's nose and lips, maybe even kiss him, but that was probably inappropriate and creepy - even bordering on some consent issues - especially if Derek had never known him.

He pushed that thought aside; right now he was saying goodbye, because Derek had been as real to him as anything or anyone.

"Hey," he said quietly. "It's Stiles. I came to visit you, but I also came to say- to say goodbye." He swallowed hard, blinked back tears, and forced himself to keep smiling.

"I miss you, dude. I really fucking miss you, more than I can tell you. You were - are - so important to me... You helped me so much, you gave me hope, and I loved you. I still do, and I probably always will." Stiles had to pause, because he could feel himself ready to really start crying. He couldn't help the few tears that fell when he tried to blink them away, but he kept his smile up through it all. "It's really our promise that keeps me going, because honestly? I kind of want to sit at home and cry all the time, and if I did that, I'd end up back where I started when we met. And _nobody_ wants that, definitely not me, and definitely not you. I think you'd be pretty pissed at me if that happened.

"Anyway, I'm gonna keep trying, just like we said. And I already told you once that I'd be happy, so I will be. And I'll do my best, even though… God, it'd be so much easier if you were here to frown at me and complain about me. I really miss your cuddles, too," Stiles huffed a laugh, smiling and crying, because he could picture Derek's raised eyebrows at Stiles' choice of words. "Those were pretty great. And I'll keep those memories with me forever, and remember things as the good times they were, and not be sad about it. Because… When it comes down to it, I'm glad it all happened, even if I did have to lose you in the end."

Stiles sniffled, wiped his eyes with his sleeve, then reached out and took Derek's thin hand, one of the hands he remembered as strong and soothing, gentle and sweet. He held it in both of his with a sad smile.

"I'll be okay, I promise. I love you, always and forever," he said, and even though he knew he shouldn't, he kept going. "And if you ever can, remember to come find me."

With a last, soft squeeze to Derek's hand, Stiles let go and turned to leave.

He didn't look back.

As he was shutting the door, something started nagging at him, the same way it had when he'd first walked by Derek's hospital room. Whatever it was wanted him to open that door and go back in. Stiles stood there, fighting a huge internal battle, hope struggling over resignation and determination, the compulsion to open the door slowly beating down the need to keep going and let it go.

Stiles never was very good at impulse control.

He pushed open the door, probably a little hard if the way it bounced off the the damn door-stopper was any indication, and stood there wide-eyed and a little breathless as Derek shifted in the bed.

Stiles pinched himself hard in the stomach, and hissed an, "Ow, fuck!" when the pain hit him full-force. Meanwhile, Derek let out a moan, and the bottom fell out of Stiles' stomach.

Was this it? Could this really be happening? Did Stiles' speech thing make Derek wake up like something out of a bad romance novel? What the fuck, oh, god, Stiles was gonna pass out.

But what if he did wake up? Then what? He'd just remember Stiles and the whole thing would be real and they'd be that couple with white picket fence and 2.5 children happy ever after? This was fucking ridiculous, what was he even hoping for?

Still, he couldn't move. He was frozen to the spot like a goddamn statue, unable to stop watching as Derek slowly blinked awake.

He watched awareness settled over Derek, but was still at a total loss for what to do.

And then Derek opened his mouth.

"What - Stiles?"

Stiles' heart stopped.


	5. Chapter 5

Stiles' heart stopped. Just fucking stopped beating, and he couldn't breathe for a long, long minute.

And then all at once, his system kicked back online.

"Oh my god, you know who I am?! You really know me? How? Is this real, am I dreaming? Holy god, I need witnesses, I need other people to come in here and tell me this is actually happening, I can't deal with it if this is just my brain messing with me, because I was saying goodbye, I was moving on, holy shit, what if i actually _am_ schizophrenic and you're still in a coma and this is a figment of my disease? What do I do then? Should I talk to you? What should-"

"Stiles!" Derek shouted weakly, looking disoriented as he tried to sit up. "Breathe for a second. Calm down, and get me some water."

Stiles nodded stupidly, and Derek flopped backward again. Still wide-eyed with a pounding heart, he filled a cup of water in the bathroom to bring back to Derek. He paused in the doorway though, hysterically wondering if he'd walk back in the room and Derek would just be lying there again, dead to the world.

But when he opened the door, Derek was up, though maybe not totally on top of the whole alertness thing.

"I should get a nurse," Stiles blurted, as soon as he handed Derek the cup. "You've been out for weeks."

"I'm in a hospital?" Derek asked, after taking a few sips of the water.

"Derek, you've been in a coma for a long time," Stiles said, eyes running all over Derek's face like he might never see him again.

Derek frowned. "But I was dead," he said, and then surprise and confusion started a pretty epic battle on his face. "And you… you were just… gone. You were gone, after everything, you just weren't there, and I-"

"Shh, it's okay, I'm here now. Or, I think I am, but I don't know if you are and-" Stiles shook his head. "Look, we need to talk about this another time. Just don't think about it for now, okay?"

"Are you kidding me?" Derek said with a groan. "You were gone for weeks, and now you're telling me to shut up-"

"That's not what I mean! But I think both of us are kind of confused, dude, and I've literally been struggling with this since I woke up, thinking you weren't real and that I made everything up and-"

"So you're just going to shove aside how I feel-"

"That's not what I'm doing, I'm just really fucking lost, okay, and I'm freaking ecstatic, because I missed your face, even your pissed face that you're wearing right now, but I can't keep my head straight anymore and I don't know if this is actually real life right now, so if we can just put this conversation on hold at least until I can get a nurse in here, I'd really appreciate it!" Stiles all but shouted, bowling over anything else Derek had to say.

It was quiet for a moment, both of them breathing heavily, before Derek gave a jerky nod. "I'm still pissed," he said, frowning, but his eyebrows relaxed a little, and he looked relieved. "But… I'm also really fucking happy."

Stiles laughed a little, couldn't help the smile on his face.

"Me too," he said, and then paused before deciding he might as well give Derek the run-down real quick. "And just... as an update: in a nutshell, we weren't actually dead. Apparently we were just knocked unconscious for a while."

Derek blinked. "What?"

"Yeah," Stiles said, then bit his lip. "And, look, as happy as we've established that I am to see you, I'm gonna go ahead and say this: I know I sound like a crazy person here, but this might not actually be really happening. Like, I could just be making this up right now to torture myself with later. So… I'm gonna go get a nurse, see if you're really awake and here or if I've just totally lost it."

Derek rolled his eyes. "You lost it a long time ago, but you probably should go get someone."

Stiles couldn't help smiling, even though he was kind of nervous about the state of his sanity.

"I'll be back."

Derek grabbed his arm, and was probably trying to come off as serious-funny, but really just looked kind of desperate. "You better."

Stiles felt his heart break, but tried for a reassuring smile before scurrying out the door, flailing a little as he turned to run for the nurses' station. His mind was whirling, but right now he could use a little confirmation and stability.

"Hiiiii, hi, yes, hello!" Stiles half-shouted at the poor man behind the counter. "Look, I think my friend just woke up, the coma patient in 8014? Could you send like three or four memorable people whose names I can get to come check on him?" And realizing that sounded a little desperate and possibly insane, added, "He's in bad shape and I think he could use the extra help."

To his credit, the nurse only looked a little surprised. "I'll page the patient's nurse, and come with you in the meantime." The man - Gabriel, his name tag read, which, nice, a nurse named after an angel - muttered something that Stiles paid zero attention to into a device and then followed Stiles to Derek's room.

Stiles stopped outside the door. "Is it okay if I come in, too?"

"For now," Gabriel said. "But it's also important to run some tests and let him get some rest." And with that, he went in. Stiles hesitated, but then heard him say, "Hello, I'm Gabriel. Your assigned nurse is on her way, but for now, I'd like to take your vitals, ask you some questions. What's your name?"

Stiles walked in.

"Derek. Derek Hale."

"Okay, good. Date of birth?"

And it went on, asking the same questions they'd asked Stiles when he'd woken up.

A second nurse came in just as Gabriel was finishing up noting Derek's vitals.

"I'm Nevaeh," she said, extending a hand to Derek. "I'll be taking care of you from here, but first, I'll need Gabriel to update me. Excuse us for a moment." She took Gabriel aside, leaving Stiles and Derek alone.

Stiles realized he was gaping at Derek when he got the "what." eyebrows.

"Um," Stiles started. "So. Uh. This is real. You're actually awake."

Derek nodded. "Seems like it."

Stiles looked down, scuffed his shoe on the ground like a kid. "So I think we can have that talk, soon."

"We can."

"And I feel like maybe I should apologize."

"You should."

Stiles snapped his head up at him. "Can you please talk in sentences that are longer than three words, you're driving me nuts!"

"Now you know how I feel 90% of the time," Derek said, smiling for the first time. "We're definitely talking about all this, but doctors first."

Stiles deflated. "Yeah, I guess."

At that point, Nevaeh was back.

"I'm going to go over a few things with you, and then I'll answer any questions," she glanced over at Stiles. "Is he family?"

Derek looked over at him, seemed to be hesitating.

"No, but it's fine."

Stiles shook his head. "Actually, I need to make a call. I'll be right back."

Once he was outside the room, he took out his phone and debated who to call. Or if he should call anyone. Or if he should get someone to slap him.

He decided to call Dr. Hirt. It was lunch hour for her, but maybe she'd answer. If not, he'd leave a message.

It ended up going to voicemail.

"Hi, Dr. Hirt, it's Stiles. Um, something really weird happened, and it's… Not a dream, at least, I don't think it is. Three other people confirmed it, if you don't count the person it's about, and why am I being cryptic? Jesus." He paused, started again. "Derek woke up, and some nurses and his doctor can confirm the same thing, and he knew who I was. I can probably get some other proof, maybe take a video? I don't know, I don't think I'm crazy, but I need other people to see, too. So, just, call me back when you can. Thanks."

He didn't quite want to go back to Derek's room yet, so he went down the hall to the vending machine and got a drink. He sipped at it outside Derek's door until Nurse Nevaeh and a doctor came back out. Nevaeh stopped when she saw him, and smiled gently.

"He's going to be fine," she said. "We're monitoring him for a while, and he's very physically weak. But if I remember correctly, you were here yourself not too long ago, so you know the drill," she said, and Stiles smiled back and nodded.

"Yeah, I remember."

"You can go in and see him now, if you'd like, but he does need rest, so try to avoid anything that might be hard for him to talk about."

Yeah, right.

"Will do," Stiles lied.

She gave a last smile and then walked away.

Stiles steeled himself and went in.

"Hey," Derek said.

"Hi again," Stiles replied, and he couldn't help it, he just felt this stupid grin take over his face. He sat down. "I can't believe you're here."

"I could say the same," Derek said, half-smiling, but Stiles could see that maybe he was feeling a little unhinged, too. Stiles waited for him to keep going, bracing himself for whatever Derek had to say. "I'm not angry anymore."

"Oh, thank god," Stiles said, sagging down into the chair.

"I was shocked, I guess. Waking up with you right there," he said, reached a hand out to Stiles, who took it. It was quiet for a little longer, until Derek continued, "It doesn't seem like it could happen, but how else would we know each other?"

He didn't have to say it directly for Stiles to know what he was talking about.

"I don't know. But when you didn't wake up, all I could think was that I'd made up the whole damn thing, you know? And my therapist was thinking the same thing - that, or, like, schizophrenia. And, to be real, I'm not so sure this is still even happening."

"Even with all the other people around bugging me?" Derek said grumpily.

Stiles huffed a laugh. "Yeah, grumpypants."

"You can't blame me," Derek mumbled. "I'm fucking exhausted. In every way possible."

"I know, I felt the same way when I remembered everything, the first time I saw you here in the hospital."

Derek eyed him. "How much do you remember?"

"I'd say 'everything,' but I'm not sure what that'd mean to you. But! I do have this long typed up thing that I did with pretty much everything I remember in it. It's not quite done yet, but it's pretty much your whole history plus how we… Uh. Y'know. Got together." Stiles was blushing. Derek just smirked. Asshole.

"You mean how we fell in love?"

Urgh. "Yeah. That."

Derek smiled a little. "Good. I'd like to read it."

"Uh, sure. It's… A little embarrassing though," Stiles said, scratching the back of his neck.

"I'm sure half of it's about my eyebrows," Derek said, and Stiles smiled.

"More like 75%."

Derek rolled his eyes, then looked kind of serious-thoughtful.

"I'm not sure how I feel about this. It's kind of unreal. One one hand, I'm so fucking happy to see you. But... I can't help but wonder if I'm crazy."

"Tell me about it," Stiles muttered, flopping back into the chair again. "You have no idea how crazy this has been making me," he said, then blew out a long breath and sat back up, elbows on his knees. He looked up at Derek. "The whole reason I was here today was… to say goodbye."

It was quiet for a long time.

"Come here," Derek said, and Stiles did, a little confused, until Derek pulled him in and kissed him gently.

Stiles melted into goop, just like Derek-kisses always made him do, even though this was just a chaste little thing, nothing like some of the mindblowing ones they'd had in the past.

But this was life-affirming, this was world-changing, this was more than any of those, because they were alive, real, and they had each other.

Derek pulled away when Stiles tried to deepen it, pushing him back a little before saying, "My breath is bad." He put a hand over Stiles' mouth when he opened it to protest. "You said you woke up like this, too. Remember how that was?"

Stiles wrinkled his nose. "You win this one, Hale."

Derek smirked. "I always do."

"No, you don't," Stiles said, smiling gently.

Derek smiled back. "No, I really don't."

They stared at each other like a couple of hopeless romantics, until a thought burst in Stiles' head.

"Hey, is Laura on the way?"

"Yeah," Derek said, blinking out of his lovey-dovey reverie (that was Stiles' story, and he was sticking to it). "They said they called her."

"Are you gonna tell her?" Stiles asked, suddenly feeling a little insecure, and again getting the feeling that maybe they were both nuts.

"I was planning on it," Derek said, shrugging. "She'll understand. She's always had a thing for the supernatural. If anything, expect to be bombarded with questions."

"Oh," Stiles said, stupidly. "Um, that's good. I, uh, told my friends about you, too. And my therapist, like I said. They… didn't exactly believe it was real." Stiles laughed a little. "It's gonna be weird when you guys meet. Like, _really_ weird."

"Well, at least now they'll believe you."

"I hope so," Stiles said, then remembered, "Hey, think I could get a video with you? To send to people, make sure I haven't gone off the deep end?"

Derek nodded, even though he looked like he wanted to say something sarcastic. "Probably a good idea."

He scooted over a little, and Stiles sat carefully next to him on the bed. He started up the camera on his phone.

"Hi there," he said, waving. "I'm Stiles, and this is Derek." He turned the camera to get Derek in the shot. "Say hello, your name, and how we met."

Derek gave him a little of the hairy eyeball. "Do I really have to go into that?"

Stiles smiled at the camera. "This is my sanity-check, baby, so yes."

"Fine," Derek sighed. "My name is Derek Hale, and Stiles and I met in a beach house where we both thought we were dead."

"And there you have it, folks, short and sweet. Please let me know if all you see in this video is me talking to air like an idiot."

And he clicked the camera off. They watched the replay together, and then Stiles sent a group text to Scott and Lydia. His heart was beating a little fast, but he was relatively calm in the face of madness, so whatever.

Stiles: _I'm gonna send you guys something, and I need you to tell me if I'm crazy._

 _Attached: 1 video_

"And, sent. I guess we'll find out soon if this is some kind of weirdo dream or I've got more mental health issues than previously thought," Stiles said, and Derek cuffed him on the back of the head.

"It'll be fine."

And it was. Lydia called first, almost immediately followed by Scott, so Stiles merged the lines and got them both on the phone at once.

He got:

"Holy shit, is this for real?" Scott.

"You're at the hospital?" Lydia.

"Wait, this isn't some random guy on the street you paid or something, is it?"

"Scott, don't be ridiculous, he's obviously in a hospital!"

"Maybe he's in the psych ward?"

"Not with that I.V. and all the monitors! And he's so thin!"

"So, what, you think that's really Derek?"

"I don't know, that seems ridiculous, how could this possibly-"

"Uh, guys?" Stiles tried.

"But what if it is real and we've just been saying Stiles is Coco Puffs for no-"

"Hello? Guys?" Stiles tried again.

"But how could that be? It's not possible - but then again, it also wasn't possible for Stiles to dream it, and it would have been equally insane for his memories to-"

"Guys! I love you, but shut up!" Stiles all but shouted. "Look, Derek's right here, and we can answer your questions and then I'll prove he's really Derek when his sister gets here, okay?"

Scott and Lydia were silent, before Lydia started with, "Okay, okay. Do you need us to come there?"

"Yeah, is there anything we need to do?" Scott asked.

"Nah, it's okay. I'll be home soon, anyway, and I have to email that video to Dr. Hirt. But listen, Derek's kind of weak right now, so if you guys could tone it down when you talk to him?"

"Sure," Scott said.

"Of course," Lydia replied.

Stiles handed the phone over to Derek, who kind of glared at him. Derek covered the mouthpiece and said, quietly, "I'm getting you back, later, for all this interrogation."

"Shut up, you big baby," Stiles said, pinching him a little. "It won't be that bad."

It was that bad.

Apparently Lydia and Scott couldn't hold back as much as they thought they could, and Derek ended up talking about roughly 65% of his and Stiles' story, along with his own, painful - did Stiles mention painful? - family history. It was all done in Derek's choppy sentences and grumpy tone, and even though sometimes his face and voice went blank when he talked about the harder stuff, he did still laugh once or twice at whatever Lydia and Scott were saying.

The call ended when the food cart finally came around, Stiles begging them off so Derek could eat. He stayed on the phone with them until Derek was done, answering questions and trying to talk through everything with them. He ended up promising to give them copies of The History of Stiles and Derek when it was done.

Urgh.

Derek looked about 100x better after he ate, and when Stiles finally hung up, things got a little serious. Stiles couldn't help but wonder if things would still be the same with them, if Derek would still want him now that they were actual real live people again. Insecurity wasn't something that Stiles ever really handled well, and when it came to Derek, the thought of losing him to rejection just made his whole body want to shrivel up into dust and be blown away by the wind. Jesus.

Derek sighed when Stiles didn't say anything. "What?"

"I wanted to ask you…" Stiles said, trailing off as he rubbed the back of his neck. "Do you - do you still want-" he stuttered to a halt.

Derek's hand reached out and touched his shoulder.

"You're an idiot."

Though it was typical Derek, Stiles still bristled a little. "I'm trying to be serious here, the least you could do is give me a serious fucking answer before I explode into itty bitty pieces!"

Derek just squeezed his shoulder. "Okay, I'm sorry. But you _are_ an idiot, most of the time, but especially if you think I'm gonna let you go."

Stiles relaxed, turned to Derek.

"Good, because I really think I might have flung myself out the window if you told me to get out," he joked.

"Don't ever joke about that," Derek snapped, giving him a hard look. It took Stiles by surprise.

"Okay, I'm sorry, I won't, jeeze," Stiles said, but grabbed Derek's hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

"It was fucking horrible," Derek started, and Stiles watched him closely as he continued, "You were there one second, and when I turned around, you were gone. I was... alone, again."

Stiles couldn't help it, he crawled up onto the bed and settled himself into Derek's side. He made gentle circles on Derek's chest, and hated how he could feel his sternum, how fragile Derek was. Just like Stiles had been.

"I just about drove myself crazy looking for ways to find you, to get out of that house somehow. And then you were there, you were visiting, but I couldn't do anything. All I could do was watch you. It was so fucking awful to see you cry like that, and not be able to do a damn thing about it.

"And then, just as I was giving up, you came upstairs to our room. You sat down next to me, and then you were lying with me, so fucking close, looking like-" Derek broke off. "I knew I couldn't stop trying to get to you."

"I almost didn't go up," Stiles said, quiet. "I almost just left. But I knew I'd regret it if I never went there, if I never let myself deal with those memories. And, hearing that, I'm so unbelievably glad I did."

Derek's hand reached up to brush against Stiles' hair. "I watched you leave, and then I went to the garden and sat with Mom's flowers. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them, I was here. And you were here. It was like waking up from a nightmare," he said, whispering by the end.

Stiles sat up a little, kissed under Derek's jaw.

"You're not alone anymore," Stiles said as he pulled back. He looked Derek in the eyes. "If you're in this, I'm in this. I'm not going anywhere if I can help it. You're stuck with me, forever. And even if something does happen-"

"You'll always find me."

Stiles smiled, nodded. "Always."

Derek slid his hand to cup Stiles' cheek, and pulled him in for another kiss. He was still refusing to open his mouth, apparently, but Stiles was still blown away by the gentle press and movement of their lips, still fell to pieces in Derek's hands. He didn't give a shit that they were being stupidly romantic, or that his arm was kind of angled funky under him, or that Derek was maybe crying a little through their kiss, because it was perfect. It was perfect because it was him and Derek, when he thought it might never be this way ever again.

When they pulled apart, he saw that Derek's eyes were bright and a little wet, and went to gently swipe underneath them to catch the tears that might fall - but because he was him, he kind of maybe smacked Derek in the face when he yanked his arm out from under himself, and that was the end of that moment, yes sirree.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry dude, are you okay?" Stiles said, a little frantic, a lot embarrassed, but kind of laughing. Derek rubbed at his jaw at shot him a death-glare, but then gave a resigned sigh.

"I guess it wouldn't be you if it were any other way."

Stiles laughed for real then. "You know you love it."

"Unfortunately."

"Mmm-hmm," Stiles hummed, then maneuvered himself with a little more grace to lie back down next to Derek. He ran the tips of his fingers back and forth across Derek's collar bones, hating how prominent they were. His own collar bones were only just starting to sink back into his body as he slowly built muscle-mass. Stiles practically purred when Derek started gently running his fingers through his hair again.

They'd gotten good at comfortable silence a long time ago, and Stiles was so happy, warm, and safe, that he felt like he might fall asleep right there in Derek's tiny hospital bed.

But he couldn't, didn't want to. Part of it was that he just wanted to be with Derek, to feel him right there, real as anything, but the other part of it was that he was afraid he'd wake up and it would all have just been a dream or something fucked up like that. So he stayed, hovering on the edge of sleep and awareness, until the door slammed open and someone burst into the room like a whirlwind.

Naturally, Stiles tumbled off the side of the bed and right onto his fucking _face_ , god _damn_ it.

"Derek!"

Stiles looked through watery eyes, prodding at his nose, to see Laura rushing to Derek's side. Derek, who reached out for her and let her fall into his arms, where she started to shake like she was crying.

"Shhh, Laura, it's okay, I'm okay," he mumbled into her hair, and Stiles caught his eye to motion that he was gonna leave, give them some privacy. Derek nodded, and Stiles quietly made an escape.

He wasn't really sure where to go, but he didn't want to go far, so he ended up wandering down to where the vending machines were and buying a snack and two bottles of water. Without anything else to do, he went back to the room and leaned against the wall a ways away, not wanting to accidentally eaves drop.

He decided to text Scott and Lydia, update them on the situation.

 **Sent:** _So his sister's here now. It's kind of emotional in there though, so I'm not gonna say anything just yet._

 **Lyds:** _Of course it is._

 **Lyds:** _Don't go in until she comes out._

 **Sent:** _Wasn't planning on it._

 **Scott:** _Omg Stiles!_

 **Scott:** _Is Derek gonna tell her?_

 **Sent:** _He said he would, but that's probably not the first thing he's gonna talk about._

 **Lyds:** _Are you sure you don't need one of us to come? She might not take kindly to your and Derek's unique story._

 **Sent:** _What do you mean?_

 **Lyds:** _Well, her mentally fragile brother did just wake up from a coma. It might look like you're trying to manipulate him_.

 **Scott:** _Wow dude, way to be a downer._

 **Scott:** _She does kinda have a point tho._

Stiles paused for a minute, bit his lip.

 **Sent:** _Yeah, I didn't really think about that. Derek just said she'd understand. Something about her interest in the supernatural._

 **Scott:** _I feel like that would only get you so far tho. You gotta admit ur story is still a little weird._

 **Lyds:** _I agree with Scott. But all we can do right now is wait and see._

 **Sent:** _I'll keep you updated, and let you know if I need somebody to come get me or whatever. I think I'm good for now though, unless she comes out punching or something._

 **Scott:** _Okay. Be careful._

 **Lyds:** _Take care of yourself._

 **Sent:** _Will do_.

Stiles put his phone away, waited about .3 seconds, then took it back out to distract himself with a stupid game, because otherwise his thoughts were just gonna straight up run away with him, and probably not in a good direction, either.

Ten or so minutes passed, and then Laura walked out the door.

"Are you Stiles?" she asked, and Stiles swallowed, nodded. "You're the one who called about the house."

"Yeah… I, uh. I talked to you on the phone about two weeks ago."

She looked at him, skepticism all over her face. "Derek says he knows you."

"Yeah. Did he… Did he tell you how?"

"He said you haunted our beach house together for a few weeks," she said, putting a hand on her hip. "He also said you could tell me a story about something that happened while you two were there. Something about me?"

Stiles stood there stupidly for a second, before it clicked.

"The camera!" he shouted, then cleared his voice and took it down a notch. "You were there taking pictures, and your tripod got knocked over with the camera on it. You got pretty upset… And so did Derek. That was when he and I decided to stop being assholes to each other, and he told me about the, um… the fire, and all the other stuff."

Laura pinched the bridge of her nose.

"This is completely off the wall," she said. "But for some reason, I'm gonna believe you, if only because you make him happy."

Stiles smiled. "I do?"

Laura rolled her eyes. Apparently that ran in the family.

"He's got hearts in his eyes, it's gross," she paused for a moment. "But I haven't seen him that together in a long time. He's peaceful."

"He's helped me a lot, too. I think we're good together."

Laura sighed, looked him up and down, and then fixed him with a hard stare.

"You need to understand just one thing about this situation: I will _not_ tolerate him being hurt or strung along. He's still my little brother, and I'm not above physically kicking some ass for him."

Stiles blinked, but then laughed a little, which trailed off as Laura raised her eyebrows at him. He coughed awkwardly.

"Uh, well, you really, _really_ don't have to worry about that. I'm going to be around until he tells me to go."

"Good," she said, and then jerked her head to the door. "Let's go back in. He's looking pretty tired though, so we'll probably need to go soon. Are you heading back home today?"

"I was, but that was before he woke up. I don't think I could stand going home now."

"There're a few hotels around here, but they're expensive. You can head back to the house if you want; there aren't any reservations for another week."

Stiles smiled at her as she opened the door. "Thanks, I really appreciate it."

She gave him a small smile in return. "No problem."

* * *

Stiles and Laura had stayed until Derek's nurse kicked them out, and he was already fast asleep anyway, so they left without too much of a fuss.

Stiles had planned on staying until Laura absolutely had to kick him out, but on the way back from the hospital to the beach house, he remembered his appointment with Dr. Hirt. And then his phone started ringing, which, surprise surprise, was Dr. Hirt herself.

"Hello?"

"Stiles," she greeted. "I got your voicemail and the email with the video you sent me. And I have to say I'm surprised."

Stiles was confused. "So… what does that mean?"

"I have a few questions for you next time you come in, but I wanted to comment on how happy you looked, and how glad I am for you."

"You don't think I'm nuts?" Stiles asked, and Dr. Hirt laughed.

"No, I don't. I think we'll have to talk about healthy ways to approach this, but if you and Derek are two consenting adults, then I don't see why the relationship needs to be put under a microscope. It is what it is."

Stiles breathed a sigh of relief. "Oh my god, that makes me feel so much better."

She hummed down the line. "It looks like you're booked for an appointment tomorrow. Think you'll be able to make it?"

"I probably need to," Stiles said. "To be honest, I really don't want to leave here yet though. Can we move it to Wednesday? I wanna at least be able to say goodbye and tell him I'll be back in a few days." Stiles had Laura and Derek's numbers now, but he felt like it'd be a dick move to skip town without telling Derek himself.

"I have a 1:00 PM Wednesday. Will that work?"

"Yeah, that works."

"I'll see you then."

Stiles pulled up to the house a minute later, realized all he had was some bread and peanut butter, and decided he seriously did not give a fuck about food at the moment. He was exhausted, anyway, and didn't really taste the sandwich he made himself before he crawled upstairs and settled into the attic room bed.

As he drifted off to sleep, he had the shitty thought that he'd wake up in the morning and it'd all be a fucking dream, or a made-up memory, or something equally as horrible.

But he hoped with all his tiny little heart that it was real.

When he woke up the next morning to the sound of his text alert, he knew it was.

 **Grumpy McFrown** : _This sucks._

 **Sent:** _What sucks?_

 **Grumpy McFrown:** _Physical therapy. Hospital food. Not being able to get to the bathroom without help_.

 **Sent:** _It'll get better. Especially since you'll see my glorious face soon._

 **Grumpy McFrown:** _I better._

 **Sent:** _Be there asap bb._

 **Sent:** _:D 3 3 3_

 **Grumpy McFrown:** _Ugh._

 **Sent:** _You love me._

 **Grumpy McFrown:** _For some reason._

 **Sent:** _Shhh, I'm taking a shower now, quit distracting me._

Derek didn't send anything else, and they left the conversation at that.

It was the first of many more touching and hilarious and occasionally pissy conversations to come over the weeks through Derek's (and Stiles' still, too) recovery, and it best be believed that Stiles saved every single one.

* * *

 **Epilogue**

* * *

It was the first time Derek was coming back to Stiles' place in all the weeks that they'd been doing their dating-type-thing, and tomorrow night Derek would meet Scott, Scott's new friend Isaac, Kira, Lydia, Jackson (ugh), Erica, and Boyd. Just a little dinner party at Lydia's. No big deal.

Stiles wasn't the least bit nervous, because Derek was a real charmer, and Scott and Lydia weren't overprotective, Erica wasn't scary, Jackson was nice, Isaac was probably sane, and Boyd would be his usual self (at least there'd be _some_ stability there, as long as he wasn't feeling mischievous enough to fan Erica's flames) and it'd all just be peaches and pie and no suspicious looks or death threats.

Stiles was optimistic.

"Bienvenido a mi casa," Stiles said as he swung open the door to his apartment.

"It's a lot cleaner than I thought," Derek said, and fucking hell, did have to look so damn _surprised_?

"What, I'm clean!" Stiles said, crossing his arms. "I'm kind of a disaster of a person, but I keep things nice."

Derek just raised his eyebrows.

"You don't know me, you don't know my life…" Stiles mumbled, and Derek smirked.

"Yeah, I do."

"Shut up," Stiles glared, stomping over to his room. "Throw your crap in here and let's go, I'm starving."

Stiles squawked like a fucking idiot as he found himself suddenly flailing facedown on his bed, from where Derek had just tackled him down, what the fuck was he doing jesus chri-

"You know, I'm pretty damn hungry myself," Derek murmured against Stiles' ear, biting gently at the shell of it.

"Oh my god, we're not in a harlequin romance novel!" Stiles muttered, but knew he was busted because he'd already started panting and squirming and getting hard.

Derek chuckled. "You love it."

Stiles groaned, rolled over so he was on his back under Derek.

"Shut up and kiss me."

Derek smirk-grinned and did exactly that.

Oh, god, and it was _so_ good. They hadn't gotten to do this all that much; they lived four hours away from each other, and Derek had still been pretty weak for those first few weeks, too tired for anything more than quickie handjobs and the occasional blow job when they were feeling really frisky and knew that Laura wouldn't be home for a while.

It was kind of awkward to do the do with Derek's sister right in the next room.

But now Derek was stronger, and they were in the same place, and there was no Laura to work around.

They were going to do the do, and Stiles was super fucking pumped about it, seriously.

Stiles spread his legs to let Derek's hips fit neatly between them, and couldn't help but grind against him a little, groaning softly and getting harder every second. Derek was planting kisses down his neck, gentle, and then biting, alternating just the way he knew Stiles liked, harsh and then soothing, and it was driving Stiles up the wall.

Stiles wasn't going to be outdone though, and ran his hands up Derek's back - he could still feel too many vertebrae, even though Derek was getting a little bulkier every time they saw each other - and then gently scratched his nails from Derek's shoulder blades down to his ass. He pushed his fingertips under the waistline of Derek's pants, brushing over the curve of his ass and gripping, pulling Derek into him. Stiles had the fleeting thought that even now, he and Derek fit together so well… God, they were perfect.

 _This_ was perfect.

When Stiles ran his hands up Derek's back again, he kept going, pushing Derek off him a little so that he would get the hint and take his stupid shirt off. Derek pulled back to kneel on the bed, yanking his shirt over his head, then went in to peel Stiles out of his button down and dumb graphic tee that Derek had made fun of earlier.

Jerk.

Derek leaned back down, licked a stripe from Stiles' belly button to his left nipple, teasing and nipping before heading back up to his neck, leaving bites and hickeys and jesus fucking christ Stiles was going to be a disaster, he wouldn't be able to go out in public, oh, god, who gave a shit about that, not Stiles, that was for sure.

Stiles turned his head and captured Derek's lips in a kiss again, one hand going to Derek's hair while the other raked nails down his back before circling around to tug at one of Derek's nipples. He grinned triumphantly when Derek's breath hitched, and wrapped his legs around Derek's hips, trapping him so he could rut up against him like a horny teenager.

He could feel Derek's erection through their pants, even, and that just made Stiles harder, knowing that Derek was getting off on their rubbing and kissing and groping, and lord help him, Stiles needed Derek's pants off as of three weeks ago, this was driving him _crazy_.

Stiles was struggling with deciding whether to try and keep kissing Derek while they weaseled out of the rest of their clothes, or if he should go straight for the stripping- oh, god, there Derek went with the fucking _tongue sucking_ , jesus christ Stiles was gonna die right there, the answer was yes, yes nudity, yes just get these fucking clothes off-

"Derek," Stiles said against his lips, pulling back a little. "Derek, Derek, clothes off, take your pants off!"

"Romantic," Derek grumbled, but pulled back, stepping off the bed to get rid of his pants as fast as possible and then yanking Stiles' down as soon as Stiles got the fly undone.

And then they were both so naked and it was the best, being naked was definitely the best way they could be, and they should always be that way.

"Get back here," Stiles said, scooting back on the bed and letting his thighs fall open. It was a little embarrassing, but Derek's cock jumped and Stiles' mouth watered, and suddenly it wasn't embarrassing at all. It was just sexy, and even sexier was the way that Derek crawled up the bed toward Stiles.

Derek went in for a kiss, and it was deep, hot, just fucking right for Stiles, and then he rolled them so that Stiles was on top, straddling Derek's lap. They'd broken their kiss to change positions, but Stiles dove right back in, like he couldn't get enough.

And maybe he couldn't, maybe he never would, because this was Derek, and Stiles couldn't picture ever not wanting him.

So he kissed Derek like it was the last chance he'd ever have, stroking inside his mouth, nipping his lips, caressing his tongue and stealing Derek's breath. Stiles tugged on Derek's hair, let his hands traced down Derek's neck, over his ears, back into his hair, and Derek let out a moan and kissed Stiles back for all he was worth.

They drank each other down, until Stiles couldn't take it anymore, because he needed Derek, all of him, in every way he could have him.

"I want-" Stiles started, but broke off with a gasp when Derek nipped at his ear. He tugged Derek's hair until he pulled back to look at him. "Derek, I want… Do you- I mean, I've been thinking-"

"Yes," Derek answered. "I want it too."

Stiles kissed him again, a little more gentle, and then leaned away from Derek to his bedside drawer and pulled out lube and condoms.

Mercy, this was really happening.

Thank fuck.

Stiles went back to Derek, leaning in and kissing him again, because fuck, he couldn't help it, he dared anyone to see Derek Hale looking debauched and ruined like he was right at that moment and _not_ want to lay him out and take him apart.

Derek spread his legs, pulling Stiles to him. Stiles thought he was getting the hint, here, but he wanted to be sure.

"So you want me to…?"

"Stiles," Derek said. "I want you inside of me."

Oh, fuck.

Stiles swallowed heavily, nodded, and reached for the lube. He sat back for a moment, admiring the picture of Derek spread in front of him, ready for whatever Stiles wanted, whatever Stiles would give him.

Urgh, Stiles really hoped he wouldn't come 1.2 seconds into the whole thing.

Stiles shook his head, turning his focus to coating his fingers, then sat back and let Derek move his legs up and apart, opening himself to Stiles. And Stiles maybe wasn't quite ready for it, because when he looked down he just about lost it, and had to lean up to kiss Derek gently to get control of himself. He kept kissing Derek as he slowly, slowly slid one finger inside, moving it in and out with no real resistance.

Derek's breathing was ragged, and Stiles pulled back to look at his face, into his eyes, then looked down again, watching his hand as he added a second finger. Stiles was taking his time, trying to calm himself down a little, but he wasn't sure it was really working, because Derek was hot and soft around his fingers, and Stiles couldn't help imagining how it would be when he was finally inside, his cock surrounded by Derek's heat.

Stiles traced his other hand down Derek's torso, stopping to tease at his nipples, and then finally found Derek's hard dick. He wrapped a dry hand around the top, tugging the foreskin up and over the dripping head, getting it slick so that he could gently move his palm in circles over it. Derek was shuddering under him, gasping and letting out little moans that made Stiles sweat and shiver, and Stiles needed to speed this up a little.

By the time he had the third finger in, they were both a total mess, writhing and shaky, and it was hot in the room from the way their bodies moved together. Derek was panting, trying to keep his eyes on Stiles, but unable to help throwing his head back every time Stiles stroked over his prostate - which he did as often as he could. But they were reaching breaking point, and Derek apparently got fed up with Stiles, since he took his hand to stop him, and hit him in the face with a condom.

"Wow, mood killer," Stiles said, laughing a little.

"Oops, my hand slipped," Derek deadpanned. "Come on, already."

"Demanding."

"I'm getting old here."

"You're already old," Stiles said, laughing, and even though Derek was trying for annoyed, he still looked amused.

"Not old. Now fuck me or I'll roll you over and do it myself."

Stiles shivered a little, but lined himself up and pushed inside slowly.

"That's- ah, oh, god- something we'll definitely- fuuuuck- explore another d-" Stiles was cut off by Derek rolling his hips up and suddenly Stiles was all the way inside, his hips resting up against Derek's ass, holy, holy, holy _fuck_.

They both lost their breath for a moment and the world must have stopped then, because when Stiles came back to, he was looking down at Derek, who was barely focused on anything, lying there beautifully all for Stiles. He was so incredible, a sheen of sweat across his forehead and black hair wild, and jesus god, the look in his eyes was almost unbearable. Stiles could see and feel affection and lust and wonder and how turned on Derek was, and he felt it all right back. It was nearly overwhelming, and he had to take a second to kiss Derek senseless and filthy, wet and soft.

He pulled away, brushed Derek's hair from where it clung a little to his temples, and smiled down at him.

And then Derek rolled his hips again and Stiles absolutely couldn't wait another second.

He tilted himself back to rest his weight a little more on his knees, and pulled back slowly before thrusting in gently, letting out little moans between hitches in his breath. Derek was suddenly turning very vocal, little whines and groans, and "oh, god's" on his breath with every push-pull Stiles gave.

The rhythm stayed slow at first, their eyes locked and watching each other's reactions, the air heavy and hot between them and their bodies in sync like they'd been lovers forever, and Stiles knew that they weren't fucking - they were seriously, actually, in real life making love. It was sensual and consuming, and Stiles felt like he was flying and free and overwhelmed all at once.

He would not cry during sex. He wouldn't.

Slow and powerful and loving and straight up more than Stiles could have ever thought sex could be. This was on a whole other level, on some kind of other plane of reality, because he'd never felt so connected to another human being… He felt like he was exactly where he needed to be at this point in time, that something had come together perfectly to get him here, with Derek, in the moment.

But then Derek's eyes fluttered closed and he stretched his arms up to grab the headboard, and Stiles could feel the change in the atmosphere, could sense how ready Derek was to really get fucked, and Stiles wanted to light up him.

He dropped his head, Derek's hips rolling up hard to meet him and Stiles answered him right back, increasing his pace and the strength behind his hips and even though they were closer to fucking than they were before, there was still something sweet about it, even through the frantic energy and desperation to get off, to finally come apart for each other.

Stiles reached a hand down, grasping Derek's hard, wet cock, and tugging just the way he knew Derek liked, a little slow and rough, but then Derek leaned forward and licked a stripe up his neck that had Stiles gasping before sinking his teeth into Stiles' shoulder like he was trying to leave his mark there for the whole fucking world to see, and Stiles couldn't - he couldn't-

"Oh, fuck, Derek, fuck, I'm gonna-!"

Everything went white for a second, and when he opened his eyes it was to Derek underneath him, shaking as he stroked himself off between their bellies where Stiles was pressed against him.

"Oh no you don't," Stiles whispered, diving down the bed to take Derek's dick in his mouth right as he started to come, hot and wet against Stiles' lips and tongue. Stiles licked gently at Derek's spent cock, suckling on the head until Derek was shivering and pushing his head away.

Stiles rested his cheek against Derek's thin thigh, still breathing a little heavily, and waited for himself and Derek to recover a little bit. As soon as he felt like he could move, he pushed himself up over Derek's body, and leaned in to kiss him, deep and messy.

It was all he could do to roll off to the side and toss the condom in the garbage can next to his bed, but he still managed to maneuver himself so he could cuddle up to Derek.

Who promptly shifted Stiles so that Stiles would be the big spoon.

"Big spoon Stiles time, huh?"

"Yeah, now don't ruin the afterglow."

Stiles sighed and started small kisses along the back of Derek's neck, who shifted to press back up against Stiles gently.

"Hey," Stiles whispered, and Derek groaned. "Oh, shut up, it's just one thing. Okay, two. Two things."

Derek let out a put-upon sigh. "And they are…?"

"One: that was _awesome_ , and two: olive juice."

Derek went still. "Olive juice?"

"Olive juice," Stiles grinned against his neck.

"Are you five?"

"Maybe."

Derek turned and buried his head in the pillow for a second before settling back to normal.

"Olive juice too."

"Ha! I knew you'd get it."

"And," Derek said, rolling over to kiss Stiles. "I love you. Because I'm not five."

Stiles grinned.

"Love you too, frown-face."


End file.
